MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 


MY 
BROTHER  S  KEEPER 


By 

CHARLES  TENNEY  JACKSON 


Author  of 
THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

ARTHUR  WILLIAM  BROWN 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


c5^ 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 


MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  hunted  man's  left  arm  rose  slowly  until 
his  hand  rested  on  the  iron  post  supporting  the 
elevated  railway  spanning  the  Chicago  street,  his 
face  sank  to  the  crook  of  his  elbow,  and,  above  this 
shield,  and  under  his  gray  hat,  his  eyes  were  leveled 
at  his  enemy  a  block  away  on  the  farther  curb. 

The  sun  was  very  bright.  To  his  right,  another 
square  from  the  Alley  L,  the  passing  people  were 
clear  in  color,  distinct  in  array,  against  the  mighty 
bulk  of  the  church  across  the  way;  up  the  broad 
steps  between  the  crosses  of  stone  on  the  balustrades, 
these  distinctive,  beautifully  gowned  women,  singly, 
or  in  twos  and  threes,  or  in  groups  entered  the 
shadow  below  the  intricate  gates  of  bronze — a  pa- 
geant like  the  pictures  of  a  biograph,  a  processional 
of  moderns  linking  back  to  some  festival  of  the 
barbaric  ages  of  faith.  The  hunted  man  saw,  past 
the  church,  its  Gothic  tower  in  the  sunlight,  a  patch 
of  lake,  blue,  rippling  under  overarching  elms 


2  ;MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

which  showed  a  film  of  green  on  the  Easter  morning. 
From  this  his  alert  glance  shot  back  the  other  way 
at  the  plain-clothes  man  who  stood  in  brief  baffled 
inquiry  on  the  corner,  and  then  came  on. 

A  train  shot  along  the  overhanging  structure ;  the 
shock  on  the  cool  metal  stung  the  hunted  man's  fin- 
gers, the  vibrant  snarl  tensed  his  brain,  already  acute 
with  caution  and  the  need  of  fear.  His  right  hand 
stole  back  to  the  rubber  grip  of  the  automatic  pistol 
in  his  pocket,  but  his  figure  did  not  stir  from  its 
mimicry  protection  of  the  iron  frame  casting  its 
shadow  about  him ;  his  eyes  did  not  lose  their  watch- 
ing of  the  plain-clothes  man. 

A  group  of  people  were  coming  from  across  the 
street  and  along  to  the  Alley  L.  The  fugitive's 
glance  searched  them  incessantly,  and  when  they  had 
neared  him  in  his  shelter,  the  women's  rich  skirts 
touching  him,  with  another  flit  of  his  eyQS,  his  hawk's 
profile  sharp  in  the  sun,  at  the  pursuer  a  block  be- 
hind, he  stepped  out  in  pace  with  them  and  went 
along  toward  the  church.  They  saw  a  big  man  of 
rather  unwieldy  figure  curiously  at  odds  with  the 
lightness  of  his  tread,  an  inexplicable  grace  such  as  the 
life  of  the  open  gives;  when  he  looked  once  at  them 
they  saw  a  full,  round  face,  unstirred,  stealthily 
complacent,  the  gray  eyes  bold  in  their  wary,  brief 
intent — a  face  which,  on  the  side  view,  took  again 
its  verisimilitude  of  a  hawk's  under  the  gray  slouch 
hat.  He  trailed  the  fashionable  women,  the  silk- 
hatted  Easter  men,  his  glance  now  ahead,  for  on  the 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  3 

corner  opposite  the  church  a  uniformed  patrolman 
stood,  his  lazy  baton  flashing  as  did  the  spokes  of  the 
carriage  wheels,  the  flirting  harness  of  the  horses, 
full-lifed  in  the  morning,  stretching  their  necks, 
twisting  their  red  tongues  about  the  bits,  with  nerv- 
ous starts  checked  by  the  immobile  coachmen. 

At  sight  of  the  bluecoat  the  hunted  man  fell  bade 
a  step.  He  looked  at  the  enemy  behind  with  incred- 
ible swiftness,  and  then  came  on  with  the  group. 
And  slowly  these  turned  in  to  a  small  side  door  of 
the  church,  its  shadows  deep  over  the  young  sward. 
For  a  moment  the  man  stood  alone,  halted,  clear  in 
the  marvelous  brightness — alien,  hostile,  poised  in  a 
complete  cat-like  patience,  his  eyes  narrowing,  con- 
scious that  before  and  behind  his  enemies  could  see 
him  unobstructed. 

And  a  strange  humor  lit  his  priest's  face,  the 
pleasure  of  peril,  the  thrill  of  the  hunted;  the  butt 
of  the  gun  in  his  pocket  bulked  big  as  the  hand  of 
a  friend  in  the  dark.  Again  his  glance  shot  from 
one  officer  to  the  other,  the  patrolman  yawning  by 
the  line  of  carriages,  the  detective  now  under  the 
Alley  L  looking  alertly  up  its  sodden  way.  With  a 
laugh,  that  was  more  a  grimace,  the  hunted  man 
walked  after  the  Easter  worshipers,  up  the  steps  and 
into  the  dim  and  cool  recess.  The  usher,  pallid, 
poker-like,  the  lump  of  his  throat  working  over  the 
edge  of  his  high  collar,  stared  at  the  man,  who,  for 
a  moment,  did  not  remove  his  hat,  nor  turn  down 
his  collar  from  his  miner's  blue  shirt.  The  pale 


4  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

youth,  his  Adam's  apple  throbbing  like  a  bad  con- 
science, was  about  to  address  the  stranger  when  the 
latter  suddenly  looked  about  at  the  bit  of  grass  inlaid 
as  a  jewel  in  the  stone  walk,  the  street  beyond ;  and 
then  turning,  taking  off  his  hat,  he  walked  down  the 
cross  aisle.  The  detective  came  past  the  door  to  the 
corner  and  conferred  with  the  policeman,  who  wiped 
his  red  neck  with  a  cotton  glove  and  shook  his  head. 
Before  them  the  thickening  array  of  beautifully 
dressed  women  and  clean  men  was  mounting,  a  flow- 
ered tide  inundating  the  broad  steps  to  the  sanctuary. 
From  the  bronzed  doors  came  a  murmur  of  the  or- 
gan, dreamy,  sensuous,  far — as  the  whisper  of  the 
sea's  power  on  soft  beaches,  so  was  the  Easter  pre- 
lude. From  under  the  filigree  of  elms,  young,  green, 
the  April  sun  showered  the  lake ;  the  world  seemed  a 
magician's  crystal  held  to  the  light. 
«  Within,  far  down  the  body  of  the  cathedral,  a 
slender  gentleman,  frock-coated,  his  gray  under- 
chops  stuck  with  hair  in  the  senile  folds,  had  paused 
before  his  pew  which  the  usher  was  making  a  topic 
of  apologetic  whispers.  Behind  them  a  pursy  ma- 
tron, an  array  of  black  and  lavender,  holding  a 
gold  Book  of  Prayer,  bobbed  about  obstructing  the 
rivulet  of  worshipers  pouring  down  the  nave.  And 
they  whispered,  the  gentleman,  the  usher  like  a 
caricature  of  black  and  white,  the  puffing  woman; 
and  then,  with  some  final  and  proper  snort,  the  pew- 
holder  led  the  way  past  the  obstruction. 

The  hunted  man  filled  the  corner.  He  sank  back, 


MY   BROTHER'S   KEEPER  5 

lifting  his  muddy  boots  from  the  foot-rest  and 
turned  his  full  face  with  its  inimitable  grimace  on 
the  two.  The  respectables  swept  him  with  a  ponder- 
able hate;  his  gray  upper  lip  lifted  back  at  them,  his 
eyes  grew  slit-wise,  he  appeared  an  animal,  a  thing 
of  the  outdoors,  earning  hate  and  requiting  fear. 

And  from  their  stare  the  worshipers  cringed; 
the  little  gentleman  in  the  baggy- fronted  white 
waistcoat  and  his  rotund  wife  now  looked  straight 
ahead  at  the  altar  with  its  enrobing  lilies,  ravishing 
with  their  purity  the  dim  recess  beyond  the  chancel. 
She  slid  to  the  cushioned  rest  with  her  knees  and 
muttered,  her  left  hand  before  her  head  gleaming 
with  diamonds,  the  gold  Book  of  Prayer  set  to  this 
jewel  flashing. 

The  hunted  man  seemed  seized  with  humor;  a 
great  slow  smile  was  on  his  face,  turned  now  back 
to  the  doors,  reading  each  comer  down  the  main 
aisle  with  the  alert  judging  of  the  open-bred.  He 
saw  a  confusing  crush  of  Easter  people  blocking  the 
vestibule  and  spreading  within  under  the  loft  where 
the  organ  overlaid  its  throbbing  sweetness.  Beyond 
this  a  vast  window,  a  glowing  picture  of  women 
about  a  well  with  Christ  haloed  above,  poured  the 
sun's  diffused  magic,  so  that,  from  the  garments  of 
the  Lord  and  from  the  simple  women  of  Palestine, 
millions  of  jewels  filtered  down  upon  the  beautiful 
moderns  of  the  far-spreading  auditorium — from  the 
whiteness  of  the  God's  robe  to  the  inordinate  splen- 
dor of  the  women,  the  plumes,  furs,  satins,  gems, 


6  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

e.ach  costing  more  than  would  have  ransomed  Him 
from  Calvary. 

The  fugitive  was  stilled  in  this  sweet  light,  the 
music's  purring,  the  overarching  shadows,  the  in- 
effable spirit  of  peace.  He  seemed  to  have  no  curi- 
osity, and  no  fear;  after  a  moment,  when  the  or- 
gan's prelude  swelled  to  a  mighty  inrushing,  the 
air  vibrant,  appealing  with  an  ecstatic  pathos  to  the 
souls  of  the  throng,  he  sank  lower,  his  head  leaning 
to  the  crook  of  his  folded  arms,  his  eyes  closed. 
Then  they  might  have  seen  his  weariness. 

Before  the  lilied  cloth  and  behind  the  rich  woods 
of  the  chancel  a  cloud  of  white-robed  youths  arose, 
their  voices  breaking  to  praise  of  the  Creator  for  the 
day;  slowly,  and  with  the  set  and  practice  of  the 
theatric  subtly  underplaying  to  the  senses,  they  came 
on  by  twos  down  the  middle  of  the  church,  the  first 
of  the  procession  bearing  above  him  a  curious  piece 
of  white  metal,  inwrought  and  mysterious.  Slowly 
the  processional  chanting  passed;  their  white  gar- 
ments touched  the  man's  arm  on  the  pew  end,  their 
voices  rose,  the  clear-eyed  boys  singing,  and  it  was 
as  if,  triumphantly,  a  god  had  passed. 

The  tired  man's  eyelids  fluttered,  his  nostrils  drew 
from  out  the  sensuous  richness  of  the  worship,  a 
perfume;  he  drew  it  again  and  again  from  his 
dirty  sleeve,  the  brackish  sweetness  of  the  buffalo 
pea-vines  on  the  North  Platte  where  he  had  lain 
for  nine  nights  in  the  open  after  he  killed  Marty, 
the  guard.  And  mingled  with  this  was  the  stubborn 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  7 

sulphuric  tang  of  the  chlorination  mill  where  he  had 
been  a  prisoner  while  the  Miners'  Union  fought  out 
the  Bull  Hill  war.  His  tired  eyes  closed;  the  long 
escape,  the  police,  the  hurrying  figures  of  the  Chi- 
cago streets,  where  he  had  twisted  to  evade  the  trail  ; 
the  plunging  traffic  and  the  pitiless  hunt — even  now 
the  dazzling  voluptuousness  of  the  Easter,  its  decked 
women,  its  mighty  chant,  the  robed  procession — all 
this  climacteric  to  the  astonishing  drama  of  his  days, 
fused  to  a  blur,  keyed  low,  until,  in  a  droning  inter- 
change, it  was  the  chittering  of  the  San  Miguel  in  its 
rocky  bed  behind  his  cabin.  The  walls  of  the  great 
church  lengthened  and  shot  up  until  they  were  canon- 
high — he  was  a  thousand  miles  to  westward,  stand- 
ing by  his  shack  door  looking  up  the  Colorado  ridges, 
with  their  sparse  winter-bitten  pines  against  the  flare 
of  white  peaks  above  the  foot-hills. 

For  a  time  they  did  not  notice  him,  the  choristers 
passing,  the  song  in  air.  The  music  lulled,  was  still ; 
the  clergy  before  the  cloth  of  lilies  went  through 
some  reverential  motions,  and  then,  in  an  ornate  box 
hung  to  the  left  of  the  altar  from  the  wall,  a  man 
with  a  bald  head  began  to  talk.  The  others  answered, 
and  this  went  on — the  bald  man  in  the  white  robe 
over  black  speaking,  and  the  mumble  coming  from 
the  thousands  of  women  in  the  seats.  The  air  grew 
warm,  the  earth  mellowing  under  the  delight  of  the 
spring,  and  within  the  temple  it  was  now  orientalized 
with  odors — incense,  perfumes  concealing  human 
sweat,  flowers  crushed,  dying,  the  smell  of  birds' 


8  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

feathers  and  the  skins  of  animals,  milliners'  stuffs, 
and  trappings  but  an  hour  out  of  arsenical  wrappers 
— from  all  the  worshipers,  mute,  hot,  heavy,  rus- 
tling, this  complex  and  determined  tribute  for  which 
they  had  busied  themselves  for  days,  rose  to  God ;  in 
templed  phalanx,  with  their  hats  correct,  the  women 
hurled  themselves  before  the  Almighty. 

Above,  in  his  preaching  box,  the  bald  man,  over- 
come by  this  offering,  music,  flowers,  odors,  color, 
warmth,  this  inordinate  sensuousness,  thrust  now 
and  then  a  finger  between  his  collar  and  the  flesh  of 
his  neck  and  went  on  talking,  as  he  was  expected  to 
do,  saying  the  things  he  was  expected  to  say,  while 
they  listened  in  the  proper  attitudes,  and  thought 
gently  after  the  manner  of  the  best  people,  the  wom- 
en now  and  then  giving  an  approving  nod  of  their 
heads  heaped  high  by  dead  birds'  wings,  by  the  hair 
haggled  and  bargained  from  their  meager  sisters  of 
Europe,  and  false  flowers  fashioned  by  weary  baby 
fingers  in  the  reek  of  the  cities — all  of  which,  offered 
virtuously  by  the  best  people  everywhere,  is,  there- 
fore, considered  proper  before  the  Lord,  and  is  so  re- 
ceived by  His  minister. 

But  at  last,  in  a  pause  of  his  droning,  there  came 
a  snore.  At  first  it  was  not  recognized,  and  then  a 
higher  note  caused  silks  to  rustle,  a  hat  or  two 
creaked  in  their  wires  under  the  dead  birds'  plumage. 
The  preacher  hesitated;  when  it  came  again,  he 
stirred.  Women's  heads,  under  the  dried  and  disin- 
tegrated skins  of  the  birds,  turned.  In  the  little  pen 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  9 

where  the  sleeping  man  had  sunk,  the  pew-owners 
looked  composedly  ahead.  But  a  quicker  note — they 
could  not  dissemble  their  panic,  they  opened  wide 
their  eyes,  the  lady  fanning  herself  hurriedly  that 
none  might  think  she  slept  in  the  house  of  God  on 
Easter  when  there  was  so  much  to  see  and  hear. 
But  the  nasal  sound  came  again ;  near  ones  saw  him 
now,  a  lone,  tired  man  in  a  blue  miner's  shirt,  gro- 
tesque, unlovely,  his  face  burned  by  sun  and  un- 
clean from  the  earth. 

And  now  that  deceit  was  useless,  the  couple  with 
him  glowered;  the  lady  in  black  and  lavender,  in- 
deed, quivered  with  it.  But  the  priest  went  pon- 
derously on.  At  the  next  snore  the  littlest  boy  of 
the  white-robed  crew  tittered.  And  at  the  next,  two 
more  tittered;  one  could  look  across  the  sea  of  silks 
and  tails  of  animals  and  dead  birds'  wings  and  tell 
by  the  expression  of  the  devout  that  God,  indeed, 
must  be  disturbed.  The  little  gentleman  by  the 
sleeping  man  was  purple  even  without  the  splendid 
light  from  a  memorial  window  across  his  face,  the 
great  artistry  in  the  wall  showing  to  all  the  thou- 
sands of  the  temple  that  the  dead  man  whose  name 
was  written  thereon  must  have  had  much  money. 

An  usher  was  approaching.  He  bent,  and  the  ro- 
tund woman  spoke  to  him,  the  golden  Book  of 
Prayer  trembling  with  wrath  in  her  hand.  The 
usher  bent  again  and  touched  the  sleeper's  arm.  The 
preacher  in  his  ornate  box  went  on  unwinkingly, 
superior  to  the  trouble  down  in  the  cauldron  of 


io  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

milliners'  stuffs  below  him.  He  was  preaching  of 
the  Arisen,  the  greatness  of  God's  love  that  could 
look  benignly  down,  undoubtedly,  and  forgive  a 
tired  and  hunted  man  .  .  .  besides  it  was  get- 
ting late  and  he  must  hurry  through  to  dine. 

"Here — here—  "  the  usher  whispered,  shaking  the 
snorer,  who  would  not  have  awakened  through 
twenty  hours  of  such  puling  remonstrance.  A  choir 
boy  laughed;  the  preacher  hoisted  his  warm  collar. 
The  usher  whispered  again,  appealingly:  "Here — 
mustn't  sleep  in  church — wake — up!" 

He  did  not,  and  the  little  man  beyond  reached 
from  his  side  and  gave  the  tired  man  such  a  punch 
that  his  hat  fell  from  his  lap.  And  at  that  he  did 
awake,  whirling  to  his  feet  and  about  with  such 
precise  and  deadly  action  that  the  usher  dashed 
against  the  other  pew.  The  man  stood,  his  hand  back 
to  his  pocket.  He  stared  dazedly. 

"Here,  you!"  pleaded  the  usher,  recovering. 
"Come  out  of  here !" 

He  held  out  the  hat.  The  gray  burned  face  before 
him  swept  him  and  the  others,  the  hostile  faces  all 
about,  and  then,  taking  the  hat,  he  followed  the 
usher  up  the  aisle.  They  stared  at  him,  forgetting 
God,  and  even  their  new  clothes,  in  fright  at  his 
bloodshot  eyes,  his  heavy  face.  But  when  he  had 
gone  quite  out  in  a  pathetic,  stilled  obedience  for  so 
big  a  man,  they  smiled  in  amused  triumph,  all  those 
of  the  perfumes  concealing  the  smell  of  beasts' 
skins  and  birds'  wings — at  Sunday  dinner  they 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  n 

would  laugh  over  it,  the  tired  man  taken  from  the 
house  of  God;  they  would  dine;  and  then,  cropful, 
benign,  the  wings  and  tails  of  the  dead  birds  laid 
carefully  away,  with  loosened  waistbands  and  cor- 
sets, they  could  sleep  the  afternoon,  or  drive  or  talk, 
going  about  the  pleasurable  matter  of  just  living. 

The  man  stood  blinded  in  the  smite  of  the  sun  on 
the  temple  steps.  Then  slowly  he  went,  his  drowsed 
brain  crackling  into  its  need  of  fear.  Down  the 
street's  end  with  its  splash  and  glitter  of  blue  lake, 
near  the  end  of  the  carriage  line  and  lolling  coach- 
men, he  saw  a  policeman.  He  was  sauntering  slowly 
toward  the  church.  And  on  him  with  the  old,  fierce 
thrill  of  the  hunted  the  lone  man  looked.  Slowly 
from  the  base  of  the  Greek  cross  he  backed,  watch- 
ing the  other,  then  with  his  curious  agile  tread,  went 
the  other  way  along  the  line  of  carriages.  He  kept 
very  close  to  the  curb;  he  was  passing  one  of  the 
smartest  of  the  equipages,  when  he  stopped  abruptly. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  within  to  the  cool  semi-gloom  of 
the  cushions.  A  woman  was  watching  him  with  eyes 
in  terror.  He  himself  exclaimed.  The  drowsy 
driver  did  not  notice;  the  fugitive  looked  again  at 
her,  her  eyes  wide,  her  hand  raised,  her  stifled  cry — 
he  glanced  down  the  clean  curb  at  the  nearing  patrol- 
man, then,  with  his  hand  over  the  carriage  window, 
he  sprang  the  trap  and  slid  within. 

"Yes,"  he  said  intently,  to  her  complete  recog- 
nition, "have  him  drive  on,  will  you  ?" 

"Rand !"   Her  voice  came  low,  with  a  choke.   He 


12  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

felt  her  limbs  draw  from  his  own  on  the  cushions. 
"Rand!"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded.  In  the  pause  they  heard  the  coach- 
man stir.  Staring  at  the  intruder  the  woman  said, 
clearly:  "Terance — home — the  Park  Drive."  Then 
she  turned,  whispering,  her  hand  up,  to  clear,  as  it 
were,  his  image  from  her  eyes :  "Herford — you've 
come !" 

His  burned  face  had  now  a  complacent  cunning — 
like  a  man  who  had  just  won  a  game  by  some  as- 
tounding trick  incredible  to  the  onlookers. 

"Eh? — you?  Demetra,"  he  went  on — "and  after 
fourteen  years  you  knew  me!"  He  laughed  and 
looked  out — the  vehicle  had  turned,  and  he  saw  the 
patrolman  loitering  by  the  shadow  of  the  Gothic 
tower  athwart  the  street.  "I  went  to  sleep — and 
they  chucked  me  out.  I  had  a  notion  to  arise  and 
preach  them  truth — to  juggle  the  jewel  and  toss 
it  before  their  eyes,  to  make  them  gape  and  yelp  with 
wonder — and  I  fell  asleep  and  must  have  snored." 

"You — "  she  whispered  still,  in  her  shock — "that's 
like  you,  Rand — you've  not  changed.  Nothing!" 

"A  trifle  fat,"  he  retorted.  "Eh— the  pity!  I  de- 
test fat  and  here  my  bands  have  hounded  me  these 
three  years."  And  then  he  sat  forward,  his  sleepy 
grimace  at  her :  "But  you — here  in  Chicago  ?  And 
in  this  rig?  Eh?  It  is  astonishing.  I  come  skulking 
along  like  a  hunted  dog — and  God  knows  if  there 
was  ever  a  man  who  hated  to  walk  on  tiptoes  and  go 
hushed,  it  is  I — I  slip  along,  dodging  the  police,  and  I 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  13 

come  on  you.  At  once  I  open  the  door  of  your  car- 
nage— I  step  in — I  take  off  my  hat,  so.  I  inquire  as 
to  your  health — I  am  whirled  off' — Eh?  Where?  To 
what?  It  is  something  of  a  marvel." 

"It's  like  you,"  she  breathed— "like  you."  She  sat 
back,  her  dark  eyes  relaxing,  her  full  lips  less  in 
quiver.  She  was  a  woman  of  at  least  thirty.  She 
had  an  admirable  grooming  befitting  her  dominant 
personality.  Her  accent  was  a  trifle  incisive — you 
would  have  called  her  foreign,  yet  with  a  doubt  as  to 
placing  her.  She  had  about  her  light  hair,  brown 
eyes,  her  face  of  resolution  and  calm  acceptance, 
something  of  the  array  of  September,  a  luxurious 
and  golden  fruition.  That  was  about  her — the  rich- 
ness and  the  color  of  a  September  valley. 

His  big  priest's  face  watched  her;  she  noted  now 
its  years  marks,  a  cruelly  hard  stamp  of  wind  and 
sun.  He  was  forty ;  he  looked  it  despite  his  outdoor 
agility,  his  use  of  limb  and  alert  eye.  His  voice  had 
a  marvel  in  it — an  inimitable  wealth  of  modulation, 
mockery,  appeal,  power,  humor,  cruelty — there  was  a 
beautiful  and  irresistible  quality  in  it  belying  his  un- 
stirred face,  his  settled  form.  Not  seeing  him,  it 
would  have  evoked  in  you  romance,  the  lure  of  ad- 
venture, youth, — its  tone,  interpretative  as  a  violin, 
had  the  reserve  of  a  cello. 

"I  see  you  remember?"  he  went  on — "but  I  did 
not  expect  you  to  forget." 

"Forget  ?"  Her  eyes  dreamed ;  she  was  watching 
the  flash  of  the  lake  beyond  the  Lincoln  Park  shores. 


14  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Here — now—  "  she  muttered — "you're  back,  here, 
where  I've  found  peace." 

"I  should  think  you  had  found  more,"  he  retorted. 
"A  little  Polish  girl  whom  I  first  saw  on  the  streets 
with  some  peasant  dancers.  Eh  ? — you  were  starved 
and  whipped — an  old  thief  of  a  Lithuanian  had  you. 
And  I  bought  you — I  gave  old  Jurak  fifty  dollars  for 
you,  and  led  you  home  and  gave  you  a  bath.  And 
how  you  scratched  me !"  In  some  good-humored  rev- 
erie he  did  not  see  her  paling  face.  "I  put  you  to 
school  in  London.  Eight  years  of  it — I  gave  you  a 
name — Demetra!  And  in  the  end  you  ruined  me; 
and  here  you  are,  rigged  like  an  empress.  It's  a  mar- 
vel!" 

"Rand,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I  did  not  know — 
I  never  knew  the  truth  for  years — that  here  in  Amer- 
ica they  charged  you,  a  minister,  with  supporting  a 
girl  abroad,  hidden.  And  you  did  not  explain — did 
nothing  except  defy  them,  and  renounce  your  faith. 
Yes,  you  bought  me — I  know.  For  what,  God,  per- 
haps, can  tell — bought  me,  just  as  a  dog." 

"Eh,  well,"  he  returned  lightly.  "I  am  given  to 
experiments.  I've  knocked  over  most  of  the  world — 
I  know  what  it  is  to  shiver  all  night  in  the  rain  and 
be  hungry.  Three  weeks  ago  I  killed  a  man  in  Colo- 
rado— a  guard  at  the  bull  pen.  I  was  ahead  and  had 
our  only  gun.  He  lay  crumpled  in  the  grass,  and  I 
went  and  sat  down  beside  him — and  it  was  a  ticklish 
moment,  too.  But  I'd  killed  him,  and  there  was  a 
quality  to  the  thing.  I  thought  he'd  have  something 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  15 

to  say  out  of  the  ordinary — a  man  dying,  to  the  man 
who'd  killed  him.  You  know  I'm  ever  attuned  to  the 
unusual — that  I'm  for  ever  seeking  the  complete  and 
distinctive.  But  I  was  disappointed — this  fellow 
merely  lay  and  gurgled- and  did  not  recognize  me. 
He  missed  a  marvelous  opportunity.  When  I 
come  to  the  end  you'll  hear  me  sum  up  the  thing 
aright.  Death  is  an  infamous  device  at  best,  and 
most  of  us  contrive  to  make  it  commonplace.  To 
hang  a  man  when  the  bright  earth  is  here  for  him 
— to  eat  and  drink  and  go  about,  to  stand  upright 
and  smell  the  good  air!  I  will  never  be  put  out  of 
this  without  a  quarrel — I  would  wrangle  it  through 
six  Heavens,  but  what  they'd  hear  me  protest." 

She  listened  calmly,  but  with  a  pretense  of  weari- 
ness, as  if  she  had  heard  much  of  this  before — he, 
leaning,  his  poseur's  assumption,  his  unstirred  face 
with  merely  a  suggestion  of  a  grin,  his  cool  eyes,  and 
the  fascination  of  his  voice's  range.  "You  killed  a 
man,"  she  said,  "and  in  the  labor  wars  in  Colorado? 
That's  strange,  a  striker,  a  union  man — a  laborer  for 
their  cause — you,  of  all  men  on  earth — mad  with 
your  individualism — the  prince  of  egoists !" 

She  was  idly  thinking  what  she  had  read  of  the 
Cripple  Creek  strikes,  the  anarchy  of  a  state,  the  con- 
stitution overturned,  the  rule  of  the  bullet,  the  bull 
pen  and  the  dollar.  She  grasped  dimly  that  in  this 
brawl  of  the  West  the  inordinate  and  defying  spirit 
of  America  was  apotheosized;  to  the  Bull  Hill  war 
had  come  the  thousands  of  adventurers  of  all  the 


T6  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

lands,  joining  with  the  Miners'  Federation  or  with 
the  Owners'  League — hardy  men,  all,  masterful, 
alert,  taking  nothing  for  granted,  not  used  to  defeat. 
In  this  seething  cauldron  bubbled  the  most  modern 
and  coherent  socialistic  cult  along  with  the  untram- 
meled  individualism  of  the  NewT  World.  She  knew 
vaguely  of  working-men  shot,  driven  from  their 
homes,  exiled  from  their  state  under  threat  of  death ; 
and  in  turn  of  rich  men  assassinated,  troops  dyna- 
mited. She  saw  now  the  man  by  her  side,  as  if  he 
limned  out  forjier,  the  foreign  woman,  vast  battling 
forms,  universal  and  eternal  spirits  struggling,  the 
ancient  law  and  the  new,  ever  the  same,  the  fighting 
uplift  of  the  race  here  in  this  wonderful,  infinite 
America. 

"That's  like  you,  too — the  son  of  a  rich  man — a 
justice  of  the  Supreme  Court — a  striker,  hunted 
down.  Like  you  to  throw  yourself  into  some  quarrel 
for  which  you  cared  nothing.  I  remember  once 
abroad,  when  you  were  spending  your  mother's 
money,  they  called  you  the  Mad  American.  One 
wonders  now  what's  in  you?" 

"To  whip  the  beast,"  he  answered,  "this  brute 
America  they  boast  about — to  watch  it  turn  and 
snarl — to  prick  the  dull  soul  in  it  until  it  shakes  with 
rage.  I  even  enjoy  the  sensation  of  being  hunted  by 
their  police — it  gives  one  a  moment  worth  living.  I 
tell  you  I  could  be  a  prophet  for  the  land  if  they'd 
let  me — the  poet  of  its  epic." 

She  looked  a  moment  in  wonder,  then  relaxed. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  17 

"That's  like  you,  again — one  of  your  old  impossible 
speeches.  I  remember  when  a  child,  being  terrified, 
but  even  then  I  began  to  understand  that  you  loved  to 
say  something  extravagant,  to  find  distinctive 
phrases/'  She  went  on  slowly — "Those  days  when 
you  were  interested — brought  life  to  me.  I've  won- 
dered if  you  were  changed." 

"Changed  ?  The  world  has  put  a  stomach  on  me 
— the  pity  of  it.  And  I  am  forty.  That,  too,  is  an 
outrage,  that  a  man  should  grow  old."  He  leaned 
nearer,  his  inimitable  grimace  upon  her.  "A  trifle 
tired  and  fat — there  are  no  adventures  for  a  fat 
man.  And  here  I  am  in  Chicago  after  years !  Eh, 
but  I've  lived.  I've  been  bucko  mate  on  a  trader 
to  the  Marquesas,  and  had  her  rotten  timbers  sink 
beneath  me ;  I've  mined  in  Queensland  and  down  the 
Peruvian  coast;  I've  smuggled  opium  into  the 
French  islands  and  done  time  marooned  on  a  reef 
for  it ;  I've  slept  and  ate  and  fought  with  every  race 
that  fronts  the  Pacific,  and  here  I  am,  hotfooting 
through  Chicago's  streets  after  the  Bull  Hill  war — 
tired,  getting  fat — there's  no  bloom  on  the  peach  for 
a  fat  man.  I  think  I'll  go  present  myself  at  the 
judge's  door,  hat  in  hand,  and  ask  lodging  for  the 
night.  He  turned  me  away,  but  he's  rich  and  I  want 
it — I  want  money,  power,  comfort — I  want  all 
this  barbaric  essence.  I've  starved  and  been  hunted ; 
I've  sung  my  songs  and,  well — now  I  want  this  brute 
thing,  wealth — money,  it's  power." 

"Ah,  you,"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  terror;  "will 


i8  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

nothing  ever  change  you?"  She  stared  out  the 
window  at  the  gray  flit  of  shadows  from  the  blocks 
of  closely  built  houses.  They  had  turned  from  the 
park  ways,  crossing  North  State  Street  with  its  air 
of  decorous  largeness,  North  Clark  with  its  inter- 
mittent shops  and  lodgings,  to  a  clean  and  nonde- 
script street,  the  horses  traveling  noiselessly  on  the 
asphalt,  the  trees  flitting  by.  From  her  study  of  the 
Sunday's  clean  morning  aspect,  she  presently  shifted 
her  gaze  to  him :  "You,  the  actor — the  poseur,  al- 
ways !" 

"Let  me  be  it  then,"  he  retorted;  "you — there 
was  always  a  thing  in  you  for  me  to  play  on.  I 
believe,  in  fact,  you  loved  me." 

"Loved  you?"  she  echoed  slowly;  "I,  a  child — a 
little  Polish  girl  whom  you  picked  up  in  the  street. 
You  gave  me  a  chance  at  life — you  broke  the 
shell  from  me — yes.  But  could  a  woman  have 
loved  you  ?" 

Rand's  taunt  came  to  the  clearness  of  her  thought. 
"Eh,  I  made  you,  then — and  robbed  you  of  nothing. 
I  thought  there  was  some  wonderful  thing  in  you — a 
personality,  a  voice.  Eh,  I  must  have  been  a  fool — a 
cub  of  a  preacher — a  raw  boy  sluiced  into  a  divinity 
school  to  please  some  Scotch  atavism  in  my  father, 
pulled  through  Princeton  and  sent  abroad  to  come 
back  and  be  chucked  into  a  sleepy  church.  Good  God 
— //  A  rich  and  puling  youth  mauled  over  by  doctors 
of  divinity,  sent  out  to  Europe  at  twenty-two — he 
finds  a  pretty  child  and  he  sends  her  to  school  to  sing. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  19 

Then,  when  I  had  already  begun  to  balk  at  the  col- 
lar, three  years  later,  they  discover  that  I  am  paying 
your  bills.  All  the  old  hens  go  to  cackling  and  they 
ask  me  to  explain.  I  don't  choose  to  explain — I  am 
already  sick  of  the  game — I  tell  them  frankly  to 
go  to  hell.  I  remember  that  day — a  committee  of 
deacons  interrogating  a  divine,  and  he  suddenly  tell- 
ing them  to  go  to  hell,  and  putting  on  his  hat  to 
walk  out." 

"Your  father,"  she  retorted —  "you  were  his  only 
son." 

"I  remember  that,  too.  He  cursed  me  off  the 
place,  and  with  the  money  my  mother  left  I  went. 
Eh,  you  recall  ?  I  flung  it  rather  wide  while  it 
lasted."  His  chuckle  came.  "But  it  was  worth  it 
— to  tell  three  Presbyterian  deacons  sitting  in  a  row 
on  the  edge  of  their  chairs — to  have  a  callow 
preacher  babe  tell  them  to  go  to  hell,  and  walk  off. 
There  is  a  nice  completion  about  it — the  episode, 
rounded — a  perfect  jewel.  And  we  live  such  frag- 
mentariness — eh  ?  Few  things  ever  are  rounded  out 
— we  fulfill  nothing,  express  nothing  completely — 
and  my  leaving  the  church — see  the  gem  I  made  of 
it?  No  boards  of  investigation,  or  charges  preferred 
— merely  three  old  dodderers  sitting  in  a  row,  twirl- 
ing their  hats  and  digesting  the  matter  in  two  sec- 
onds— that  I  told  them  to  go  to  hell.'.' 

She  listened  to  the  voice,  its  trick  of  unbelief,  its 
phrasing  music — he  was  ever  uneasy  unless  he  was 
talking — the  egotism  that  stopped  at  nothing: 


20  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Well,  now  the  Almighty  and  I  get  on  admirably. 
I  whistle  back  to  Him  from  any  corner  He  flings  me 
to — unafraid,  undefeated."  He  turned  to  her  with 
a  changed  note,  a  patient  curiosity.  "But  you, 
Demetra,  the  little  scared  animal  that  I  warmed 
to  life — how  you're  changed !  What  did  it  ?  I  recall 
they  said  you  had  a  voice.  Did  it  make  you  what 
you  are?" 

"It  failed,"  she  answered  in  composure.  "I  had 
my  chance — I  was  taken  up  by  Moskowczki  in 
Berlin — sang  once,  indeed,  in  Milan.  But  I  failed." 

He  noted  the  hardening  of  her  face.  She  went  on 
evenly:  "Well,  it  is  not  given  to  all.  I  changed 
everything.  You  had  disappeared  three  years  be- 
fore. I  was  on  my  own  resources.  I  came  to  Amer- 
ica nine  years  ago — was  an  agent  of  the  Austrian 
government  investigating  some  emigration  matters 
in  a  bureau  of  your  Washington  government — 
merely  a  clerk  when  I  met  the  man  I  married." 

He  started,  bent  to  her  with  his  slow  smile,  an 
almost  imperceptible  creeping  of  sardonic  humor 
over  his  broad  face:  "Married?  I  was  thinking 
you  must  be — and  well?  Who  is  he?" 

"I  imagine  you've  heard  of  him.  Doctor  Ennisley 
of  Northlake  University — the  chair  of  sociology. 
That  was  the  way  I  met  him.  He  came  to  Washing- 
ton— a  member  of  the  first  child  labor  commission. 
We  met  when  I  was  detailed  to  look  up  statistics  of 
emigration  for  him  from  southern  Europe." 

He    watched    her,    actually    marveling    at    last. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  21 

"You,"  he  began,  "Demetra,  a  thing  of  moods  and 
passions — married — a  professor!" 

"Enough,"  she  went  on  coldly.  "I  am  married, 
you  see." 

He  grinned  with  an  odd  implication  of  common 
thought,  an  unguessed  reserve  of  power,  cynically 
hazarded  if  he  wished,  to  play  upon  the  deeps  within 
her,  to  find  potentialities  of  rebellion,  to  outrage  her 
with  ruthless  analysis.  She  went  on  composedly, 
measuring  herself  against  his  searching.  "And  I'll 
tell  you  a  strange  thing.  I  came  West  with  my  hus- 
band and  found  here,  in  Chicago,  that  his  patron, 
the  man  through  whom  he  hopes  to  do  wonderful 
things  for  the  reform  of  child  labor  conditions  in 
the  mills  South,  the  one  whose  fortune  and  influence 
has  made  my  husband's  work  possible,  is  Justice 
Stephen  Rand  of  the  state  supreme  court — your 
father." 

The  renegade  stirred. 

"We  are  living  there — it  is  at  the  justice's  request 
— your  old  home  on  La  Salle  Avenue." 

He  laughed.  "This — my  dear  lady — is  extra- 
ordinary !  And  you  pick  me  up  hounded  through 
Chicago's  streets!  Eh,  I  always  insisted  that  noth- 
ing more  interesting  than  to  live  and  feel  and  go 
about  could  come  to  a  man.  I  am  always  impatient 
to  crack  open  to-morrow  to  see  what's  in  it." 

"Your  father,"  she  paid  no  heed  to  his  garrulous 
shift  and  play,  "has  been  aging  the  last  year.  He 
has  been  a  recluse  for  many  years,  save  on  his  busi- 


22  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

ness  to  the  capital.  It  is  a  strange  house — it  seems 
haunted  at  times.  I — "  she  hesitated,  and  went 
firmly  on —  "have  felt  it.  I  wanted  to  move,  but  the 
judge  wished  us  to  reside  in  the  north  wing — I  think 
he  is  lonely.  He  rather  fancies  me." 

The  son  fixed  her  with  his  shrewd  gray  eyes. 
"And  you — the  woman  who  figured  in  the  story  that 
made  him  damn  me — he  does  not  dream?  Look 
here — "  he  broke  in  suddenly —  "your  husband? 
Did  you  ever  tell  him  all?" 

"Yes.  But  not  the  man.  He  knows  the  circum- 
stance. He  is  something  of  a  dreamer — an  idealist 
in  some  things — a  tolerance  as  broad  as  all  this 
land.  He  knows  some  man  lifted  me — a  child  of 
Polish  peasants — that  through  him  I  grasped  at  life 
—lifted  myself  from — the  brute."  She  shivered 
curiously  in  a  large  luxuriance.  "I  went  South 
with  him  once  to  the  cotton  mills  your  father  owns 
and  which  Doctor  Ennisley  is  trying  to  use  as  an  ex- 
periment of  his  reforms.  I  saw  the  immigrants 
pouring  in  there — alien,  ignorant,  degraded — to  be 
crushed  by  the  mills,  by  this  America  which  they 
thought  meant  life,  hope — all  that  the  old  world  had 
denied  them,  the  beaten  people.  And,  Herford,  I 
thought  of  you.  I  shuddered.  I  closed  my  eyes  and 
turned  away.  It  was  you  who  saved  me  from  some- 
thing of  that  kind — the  sweat-shops,  mills,  the  peas- 
ant women  in  the  fields — yes,  you — it  was  you  gave 
me  my  life!" 

He  was  mute  at  the  feeling  in  her  voice ;  then  he 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  23 

said :  "And  you — a  foreign  woman,  what  has  the 
New  World  meant  to  you  ?" 

"I  have  told  you.  Peace — rest  after  the  fight 
The  love  of  a  good  man — a  place  in  life." 

"Have  you  children  ?'r 

"No.  We've  been  married  three  years.  He  has 
a  child  by  his  first  wife  who,  it  seems,  was  a  country 
girl  from  Iowa — a  scared  little  thing.  My  husband 
is  a  fanatic  about  some  things — the  coming  of  the 
races  to  America  is  one.  He  dreams  of  a  great  new 
type — the  fusing  of  the  blood  of  all  the  peoples — • 
you  should  hear  him  talk  of  it." 

"He  married  you,"  the  man  went  on,  "to  mate 
that  clear.  He  saw  you  a  beautiful  animal — a 
woman  of  the  people — he  saw  in  you  a  mother  for 
his  new  America." 

She  looked  attentively  at  him.  He  went  on,  throw- 
ing back  his  head  to  watch  her  calm  face :  "I  have 
a  magician's  crystal."  He  raised  his  upper  lip  in 
that  sardonic  suggestion  of  a  smile.  "I  hold  bits 
of  the  world  to  the  light  and  look  at  them  through 
it.  It  is  astonishing — I  call  it  truth.  And  here  you 
are — clean  as  a  cat  by  a  fire.  Large-bodied,  com- 
fortable, much  pleased  with  the  beauty  you  have 
carried  past  thirty.  You  are  a  trifle  stout,  your  neck 
a  bit  full — no  matter — it  lends  to  the  peculiar  pan- 
ther luxuriance  you  carry.  Clean  as  a  cat,  luxuri- 
antly content,  voluptuously  healthy,  able,  easy, 
rounded,  unstirred — and  once,  a  child,  I  thought  I 
saw  in  you — " 


24  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

He  broke  off;  he  was  staring  without. 

"Yes?''  she  went  on  with  a  smile—  "Indeed?" 

"No  matter.  There  are  some  things  my  crystal 
seems  riot  to  make  clear.  I  rub  the  glass  and 
wonder — it  is  the  things  denied  that  interest  one. 
Well,  I  can't  blame  you — to  seize  the  good  about  you 
and  lie  back  cropful,  content.  Life  cuts  you  women 
cruelly  sometimes.  You  have,  indeed,  to  be  cats,  to 
fight  back  wildly,  piteously  ineffective.  No,  I  can't 
blame  you — you  women — to  be  full  and  by  a  fire  is 
better  than  lean,  shawled,  ugly  before  your  time. 
I  know.  I  have  been  a  tramp  on  the  road — I  know 
the  long  way.  I've  seen  the  under  side.  I've  been 
worked  in  a  chain-gang  along  with  a  nigger  in 
Brazil  and  had  the  blood  drop  off  my  fingers  into  the 
stuff  they  gave  us  to  eat  at  night.  In  this  country 
I  once  tramped  through  the  South  and  I  worked  at 
Rand's  mills." 

She  turned  on  him  in  horror:  "You — your 
father's  mills!" 

"Rolled  cotton  bales  in  the  mill  yard.  I  was  there 
ten  days.  I  can  remember  the  red  clay  road  to  the 
shanties,  the  dust  whirling  along  the  gaunt  brick 
walls  when  nigger  carts  went  by,  and  the  little  beasts 
pouring  out  from  the  weave  rooms.  Eh,  and  I've 
seen  their  rat  faces  dumb,  thin,  turned  at  me — " 

"Good  God!"  she  cried,  "be  still!" 

"Eh  ?  I  remember  once,  His  Honor,  the  Justice, 
wished  me  to  come  to  take  charge  of  his  interests  in 
the  South,  for  an  absentee  landlord  is  never  quite 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  25 

sure.  Yes,  he  would  have  forgiven  me  once  if  I'd 
have  come  back  to  help  break  little  animals  in  his  cot- 
ton mills."  He  turned  to  her  with  an  outthrust 
of  his  unshaven  chin :  "I  recall  now  that  once  I  read 
a  magazine  article  written  by  Corbett  Ennisley  on 
Rand's  mills — the  child  workers,  the  mill-town 
shanties.  It  was  touchingly  pictured  and  had  a 
fervent  peroration  about  the  brotherhood  of  men. 
Here,  this  man  you  married — what  road  has  he  come 
to  learn  his  wisdom?" 

"He  has  given  his  life  work  to  it — he  is  known  as 
an  authority." 

"A  line  of  ghosts  from  the  loom  rooms  to  the 
shanties — from  the  shanties  to  the  looms.  Eight 
hundred,  always,  night  and  day — and  the  great 
wheels  whirring — always  whirring — the  black 
smoke  drifting  across  the  sky.  The  red  dust  of 
the  roadside  and  the  stink  along  the  unshaded  lanes 
— eh,  this  college  preacher  of  a  brotherhood — has 
this  ever  bitten  his  soul  ?" 

She  studied  him  in  silence,  his  deep  voice  ceasing. 
She  tried  to  go  back  the  years,  to  remember  him,  a 
fresh-eyed,  buoyant  clergyman,  too  full,  too  ardent, 
too  eager  for  life's  filling  of  the  cup.  She  saw  now 
the  unwieldy  figure,  the  heavy  face,  the  mocker's  lips 
— his  rough  blue  shirt  unbuttoned  at  the  throat,  a 
stain  of  earth  across  the  bronzed  flesh.  She  remem- 
bered his  trick  of  phrasing,  the  poetizing  with  which 
he  ever  used  to  clothe  his  speech.  She  was  trying  to 
visualize  again  a  child's  dream. 


26  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

In  the  pause  the  carriage  stopped  by  a  gate  along 
which  was  a  high  iron  fence  grotesque  and  old  on 
a  coping.  From  it  ran  a  walk  of  blue  and  yellow 
ancient  tiles  on  either  side  of  which  was  a  sward 
severely  plain.  Rand's  house  set  in  this  with  the 
bulk  of  a  dock,  a  look  of  waiting,  crouched,  bulldog 
stubborn,  the  windows  staring,  unwinking,  sinister. 
Banked  by  the  respectable  boarding-houses  of  small 
managers,  higher  clerks,  students  and  the  like,  each 
with  its  flight  of  steps  to  the  tesselated  vestibule 
floor  and  colored  glass  door,  the  judge's  home 
lingered  on  from  a  pretentious  era  of  the  seventies, 
the  only  detached  house  along  the  decent  stretch  of 
asphalt;  its  lawn  and  walk,  the  stone  dog  in  the 
front,  its  roofs  and  porticoes  lending  the  air  of  a 
dirty  gem,  but  real,  to  a  cheap  ring.  And 
west  from  La  Salle  Avenue  the  sloven  town  shuffled 
off  to  the  sodden  manner  of  the  poor.  The  avenue 
had  none  of  Chicago's  glut  and  battle;  with  its 
young  elms  and  marginal  green,  and  three  decent 
church  spires  against  the  dun-streaked  sky  it  was 
tamely  enough  arrayed. 

But  Rand's  house,  beyond  its  black  and  rusty 
fence,  in  its  forlorn  distinction,  heeded  nothing — 
you  would  have  picked  it  as,  in  fact  it  was,  the  refuge 
of  a  recluse,  a  broken  spirit.  When  the  carriage 
stopped,  the  wife  turned  in  intent  study  of  the  son. 

"Rand,"  she  whispered,  "I  had  forgotten.  I  have 
brought  you  here — did  you  wish  it — do  you  want 
to  go  in?" 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  27 

"Wish  it?    Who  has  a  better  right?    It's  mine." 

"Your  father — "  she  looked  at  him  incredulously, 
"do  you  dare  ?" 

He  had  opened  the  door  and  was  out  before  the 
coachman  could  descend.  The  man  looked  at  him 
amazed,  the  rough  blue  shirt  collar  upturned  above 
his  miner's  coat.  Demetra  Ennisley  followed;  she 
looked  about  at  the  vacant  street,  the  silent  house, 
the  level,  ancient  sward,  young  green  in  April,  all 
under  the  astonishing  brilliance  of  the  sun.  "Drive 
back  to  the  church,"  she  said  to  Terance.  "Bring 
Mrs.  Ennisley — I  could  not  wait  for  her.  The  serv- 
ice should  be  out  by  twelve  at  most." 

The  old  man  nodded,  gathering  his  lines,  still 
looking  amazedly  at  his  hitherto  unseen  passenger. 
He  turned  the  vehicle  and  was  off  on  the  smooth 
way. 

The  woman  said :  "You've  killed  a  man,  and  your 
father  is  justice  of  the  supreme  court.  You  see  this, 
don't  you?  Hadn't  you  better  devise  some  other 
meeting — a  reconciliation — " 

He  checked  her  patiently:  "Did  you  think  I'd 
come  home  to  whine  and  beg?  I'm  a  better  man 
than  he  or  his  kind.  I  am  more  just,  kind,  true. 
I  have,  my  dear  lady,  held  myself  up  to  the  magic- 
ian's globe  and  looked  through."  And  then  his  com- 
posure dropped  to  the  opening  note:  "And  I'm 
home,  tired  of  the  road,  the  station  houses,  the  dirty 
blankets  they  give  you,  and  the  grub.  I'm  not  afraid 
to  face  him.  Money,  I  want  it — it's  power.  I  want 


28  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

to  fight  as  my  class  can  fight.     I've  seen  the  other 
side — I  know  the  beaten  people." 

Her  calm  belied  her,  she  seemed  considering  some 
other  matter  with  patient  and  simple  sincerity. 

"If  you're  here,  my  life  is  in  your  hands,  I  sup- 
pose. You  can  wreck  it — everything.  And  you  gave 
me  my  chance  at  everything — you  kept  me  like  a 
brother  would.  I  couldn't  understand ;  I  was  a  child, 
dreaming.  Now,  one  wonders  what  you'll  do." 

He  looked  down  at  her  from  the  step  in  an  ascetic 
humor.   "One  wonders  what's  in  you  worth  saving. 
See  here — "  the  big  form  on  its  agile  legs  came 
nearer,  he  stooped  in  a  sudden  cunning  to  watch  her 
face — "once  you  loved  me — whatever  that  is." 
He  stepped  nearer :  "See  here — answer  me." 
"Yes,"  she  answered  simply.    "A  child." 
He  reflected  upon  it  with  the  air  of  a  schoolmas- 
ter. "Undoubtedly  I  could  bring  it  back  if  I  desired. 
Eh?   It  might  be  an  experiment  of  some  interest  if 
time  hung  heavy  here."    Then  he  turned  with  his 
inconsequential  humor:    "Come  on  in  the  house. 
Let's  hunt  up  that  old  turkey,  the  justice,  and  ruffle 
him  by  a  sight  of  the  prodigal  returned.   Watch  him 
gabble  when  he  sees  me!" 

"Rand,"  the  wife  retorted,  "are  you  mad?" 
"I,"  he  said  airily,  "am  the  one  person  in  the 
world  who  acts  on  pure  reason.    I  am  the  lone  fol- 
lower of  truth." 

With  a  strange  patience  she  followed  to  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  woman  paused  again  at  the  vestibule.  The 
April  sky  had  a  threat  of  cloud. 

'There's  much  you  don't  know/'  she  began  with 
a  show  of  indifference.  "It's  a  poor  time  at  best  for 
your  return.  There's  a  strike  in  the  Alabama  mills. 
Mr.  Ennisley  has  just  returned  from  a  conference 
with  the  mill  owners  trying  to  win  some  concession 
for  the  operatives.  And  your  father  is  greatly  wor- 
ried— he's  been  much  harrassed — there's  a  fear  of 
violence.  And  you?"  She  went  on  seriously  as 
one  giving  disinterested  and  grave  counsel,  "Your 
swagger — bitterness — your  inconceivable  way  of 
stirring  hatred." 

"Let  the  fools  fight  it  out — it's  none  of  my  affair. 
Here  I  am  home — hungry — run  down  by  the  police. 
When  a  man's  hungry  what  does  he  care  for  some 
claptrap  of  profit  in  a  cotton  mill?  If  a  man's 
hungry,  feed  him — if  he's  cold,  warm  him — if  these 
little  rats  in  the  mills  are  crying  out  for  something, 
give  it  them.  Who  are  we  to  say  another  shall  go 
hungry  or  wear  rags  and  crawl  about  any  sort  of 
master?" 

She  evaded  him;  she  went  on  indifferently: 
29 


30  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

" You've  hated  the  mills ;  my  husband  has  fought  to 
raise  them — given  his  life  to  them.  He's  endan- 
gered his  position  at  the  university  to  plead  for  the 
child  labor  laws — his  radical  speeches  and  attacks 
on  the  industrial  system." 

"A  good  man  mewling  about  among  the  poli- 
ticians and  the  money-makers  for  the  right  to  live. 
Has  he  ever  slept  in  a  station  house  with  a  rag  of 
a  quilt  over  him  and  his  brother  man  and  gone  out 
the  next  day  tramping  the  road  ?" 

She  checked  some  revolt  and  went  on:  "Doctor 
Ennisley  has  fought  big  odds — the  mill  owners,  the 
newspapers,  the  courts.  He  was  about  to  get  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  from  Judge  Rand  to  build 
a  training  school  for  the  child  operatives — a  great 
experiment — when  this  strike  came  on.  This  very 
week  is  the  crisis  of  all  he's  hoped  for!" 

The  son  laughed;  he  had  opened  the  door  and 
pushed  through  unwelcomed  to  the  dark  hall.  "The 
old  man  giving  money  to  his  beggars?  Good  God, 
what's  happened?  I  think  it  has  been  you — you 
know  men  well.  You  used  to  have  a  way  of 
getting  things  from  them." 

With  no  word  she  followed.  /  She  wondered  at 
herself,  subdued  before  him,  she  with  her  seeming 
dominance,  irradiating  to  others  her  completeness. 
She  had  told  herself  years  ago  that  she  had  forgot- 
ten— that  now  it  was  nothing  that  once,  a  child  of 
sixteen  in  a  London  private  school,  she  had  cried 
night  long  because  this  man  had  left  her  with  a 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  31 

mere  shake  of  the  hand,  uncaring  that  her  cheeks 
burned,  that  she  could  not  still  her  heart-beats  in  his 
presence.  He  had  given  much  and  asked  nothing; 
she  had  indeed,  when  the  world  disclosed  its  ways 
in  her  later  life,  marveled  what  manner  of  man  he 
was.  Now  he  was  back,  the  enigma  still. 

Within  the  gloom  of  the  hall  an  old  serving-man 
was  staring  at  the  new-comer ;  a  cry  quavered  from 
him. 

"Bullock,  you're  still  alive.  I  recall  that  you 
closed  this  door  on  me  when  I  left — the  same  gar- 
goyle's head  on  you  as  now.  I  suppose  if  I  should 
come  a  hundred  years  from  now  they'd  have  it 
stuffed  and  mounted  in  the  hall  to  scare  me  off.  You 
hated  me." 

He  turned  and  went  down  the  high  long  hall  with 
its  two  oil  portraits  dim  on  a  cheerless  wall.  At  the 
library  door  he  looked  back  to  see  the  old  servant 
with  shaking  hands  on  the  inlaid  brass  monsters 
of  the  door-knob.  In  the  closing  the  grotesque 
sleeping  shapes  flashed ;  he  remembered  how,  in  his 
boyish  loneliness  in  this  house,  he  had  always  asso- 
ciated their  judging  evil  with  the  door  man's  skinny, 
blotched  fingers — they  had  jeered  at  youth  He 
looked  about  the  dark  library ;  in  these  same  reflect- 
ing oaken  and  glass  panels  he  had  seen  his  boy's  face 
give  back  the  dread  of  the  silent  room.  Now  a 
man's  face  was  staring  here,  his  youth  done,  flung 
away  as  found,  idle  treasure.  The  place  rebuked 
him.  From  a  gilt,  ancient  frame  the  portrait  of  his 


32  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

dead  brother,  Donald,  watched  him  as  of  old;  his 
mother's,  farther  away  across  the  long  table,  peered 
at  him,  the  canvas  presentment  with  the  pallor  of 
the  coffined.  The  cases  with  their  heavy  volumes, 
the  cold  prisms  of  the  chandeliers  of  pendant  crys- 
tals— now  as  always,  the  house  judged  him  and 
despised. 

He  turned  from  his  mute  study  to  stir  the  low 
fire ;  to  find  the  wife  looking  at  him  from  the  door. 

"And  you,"  he  said,  "live  here?  I'd  as  lief  be  in 
a  tomb—" 

"Be  still,"  she  answered;  "your  father  is  here." 

Rand  awaited  the  footfall  on  the  berugged  floor 
of  the  hall.  His  father  came  from  the  shadow.  He 
must  have  seen  the  other  from  above;  he  had  no 
word,  no  gesture — an  old  man,  frail  of  form,  a  grim, 
smooth-shaven  pallor,  a  judicial  strength,  a  sort  of 
nobleness  that  made  the  expectant  disdain  of  his  face 
a  cruel  thing  to  see.  They  looked  across  the  room 
at  each  other,  father  and  son,  the  blood  in  each 
seemed  dead.  They  had  corrupted  each  the  other 
from  an  apex  of  hate  long  passed;  the  renegade 
preacher  of  the  Word  had  destroyed  the  elder's 
faith  in  it — through  the  years  he  had  hardened  to 
the  world.  The  justice  had  come  to  be  an  au- 
tomaton of  the  law's  expression;  he  symbolized 
the  impassive  majesty,  the  terror  of  its  spiritual 
hereditament.  To  expect  from  his  lips  other  than 
the  pitiless  exactness,  the  penetration  of  justice,  as 
the  soul  of  man  could  find  it,  was  to  expect  that 


'  On  whose  welcome  have  you  come  ?  " 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  33 

the  stars  would  shower  violets  upon  the  moon  to 
hide  its  nakedness.  He  stood,  The  Law. 

He  spoke  at  last,  a  quavering  that  was  of  age,  and 
not  surprise:  "You  have  come.  I  might  ask — on 
whose  welcome  to  this  "house  ?" 

There  was  the  slightest  trace  of  a  bow  in  the  son's 
move,  a  smile  on  his  lips.  "I  did  not  expect  wel- 
come. Only,  perhaps  a  place  for  the  night  such  as 
your  stablemen  would  offer  a  tramp.  And  I'm 
hungry  and  a  tramp  would  be  fed." 

The  justice  turned  to  Mrs.  Ennisley.  A  pitying 
terror  was  on  her  that  they  could  be  so  calm,  that 
they  could  be  so  simple.  Between  them  lay  the  brute 
truth  and  they  did  not  flinch.  In  silence  she  heard 
the  windy  whip  off  the  April  lake  stir  the  ancient 
outer  shutters.  The  clouds  had  spread  treacherously 
far  and  swift  with  a  menace  of  rain  within  the  hour. 

"You'll  see  that  he  is  fed?  You  are  the  mistress 
of  this  house  in  such  matters." 

"John  Bride  will  dine  with  you,  I  suppose,"  she 
said  quietly.  "He  always  comes  Sunday  afternoons 
and  Thursday  nights.  Do  you  wish — "  she  hesi- 
tated—  "the  table  set  for  more  than  two  ?" 

"The  coming  of  this  man,"  the  justice  said  evenly, 
"has  made  no  difference  in  the  slightest  matter. 
John  Bride  and  I  dine  alone  at  the  usual  hour." 

The  outcast  had  listened  to  the  name.  Stephen 
Rand  had  turned  to  go  when  he  followed,  speaking 
lightly,  even  in  some  grave  good  humor.  "A  moment 
• — and  only  this :  A  place  to  sleep  to-night  because  it's 


34  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

coming  to  storm — and  something  to  eat,  because 
I'm  hungry.  My  belly  calls,  and  so  would  yours 
if  you'd  knocked  about  for  fifteen  hundred  miles  on 
freight  sidings  and  train  yards,  looking  this  way  and 
that,  like  a  hunted  wolf." 

"As  you  wish,"  the  old  man's  voice  was  court- 
eously uncurious,  "I  am  not  concerned  with  your 
comings  or  goings.  There  is  food  for  you." 

Rand  watched  him  go.  After  the  pause  he  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Ennisley  to  the  dining-room,  where  she 
touched  a  button,  summoning  a  maid.  The  stranger 
looked  about  at  the  servant  with  his  detached  smile. 
"A  decent-looking  girl.  That's  strange  in  this  house 
— there  was  always  a  staff  of  mummies  here — there 
was  something  that  grew  them  old  and  yellowed." 
He  sat  down  and  drew  the  slouch  hat  from  his  broad 
forehead:  "Eh — well!  Let's  eat  and  drink  and  be 
done  with  it.  I  thought  he'd  at  least  take  me  in. 
The  wind's  up — it'll  be  a  damned  rough  night,  and 
I  don't  care  who  feeds  me — one  man  or  the  other." 
He  made  an  impatient  gesture  to  the  maid  who 
stood  staring  it  his  blue  shirt,  the  collar  upturned : 
"Now  bring  rr*at  and  bread — bring  stuff  that  gives 
a  man  action— it's  a  damned  cold  night  I'll  go  back 
to." 

Demetra  watched  him  presently  as  he  drank 
hungrily,  with  no  note  of  her.  Gross,  absorbed, 
with  animal  intent,  he  ate.  But  after  a  while  he 
looked  up,  the  first  keen  hurt  satisfied,  and  seeing 
her  eyes  on  him  across  the  table,  laughed :  "This  is 


MY   BROTHER'S   KEEPER  35 

an  adventure  for  you.  I  kill  a  man  in  Colorado 
because  they'd  bull-penned  me — I  beat  a  way  to  Chi- 
cago and  a  man  who  used  to  know  me  in  Sonora, 
now  a  watchman  in  the  yards,  tips  me  off  to  the 
police.  I  dodge  them  forty  hours  and  am  driven 
into  a  carriage  to  meet — Demetra — and  home,  to  sit 
here  at  the  old  man's  board — at  his  meat  and  wine. 
O,  the  devil !  Never  tell  me  that  the  game's  not 
worth  while!  Who's  lived  as  I've  lived?" 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  long  windows  looking  at 
the  naked  ivy  clinging  to  the  wall  of  the  house 
across  the  sward,  a  sheer,  windowless  wall  of  this 
decadent  street,  where  Rand's  house  sat  sullen  in 
a  world  of  clerklings'  rooming-places.  He  looked 
back  then,  at  her ;  his  restless  eyes  lit. 

"His  Honor — he  whom  they  proclaim  the  just 
and  great — tell  me  something  of  him." 

"I  think,  beneath  it  all,  there  are  times  when  he 
wishes  to  forgive  you." 

"Forgive  me?  Eh,  for  what?  For  being  the 
happier  man?  This  one  they  set  up  in  a  silk 
robe  to  judge  his  betters — he  forgive  me?  Who's 
the  man  of  us  two — I  with  never  a  moment  in 
twelve  years  when  I  could  not  swing  everything  I 
owned  on  my  back  and  set  off  on  the  road  with  it,  or 
this  old  man  squatted  here  croaking  law  for  others 
and  coining  flesh  into  money  at  his  mills?  What's 
his  tribe  to  me?  I  have  been  beyond  all  that." 

"That  is  like  you— your  old  wild  talk."  She 
watched  him  with  slow  absorption  that  her  show 


36  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

of  indifference  could  not  hide.     "Here  you  have 
come  back — where  I've  found  peace." 

"Peace?  A  cat's  peace  by  the  fire."  He  came  to 
her  as  she  sat  by  the  white  cloth,  leaned  to  her,  his 
marvel  of  a  voice  low :  "See  here — they'll  ask  you 
where  you  picked  me  up — you  will  have  to  say  I 
stopped  you  at  the  gate,  or  something  like  that. 
Naturally,  you  dare  not  admit  you  ever  knew  me." 

"No." 

"I  thought  as  much.  Well,  lie  then,  as  suits  you. 
I  hate  a  lie,  but  now  and  then  the  fashion  of  your 
tribe  is  to  be  followed.  To  eat  when  one's  hungry, 
and  drink,  and  draw  out  of  the  storm  when  it  wets 
one — to  stand  upright  and  feel  strong  in  the  sun, 
fearing  nothing — to  love  and  hate — but  simply,  as 
truth  is — Good  Lord,  it's  simple,  but  how  hard  to 
live  among  you  with  it !" 

"That's  like  you,"  she  repeated,  "I  heard  all  this 
before — bewildered  by  it  then — now — " 

"What,  then?" 

"Who  could  understand?  Truth?  I  think  you 
are  an  empty  bottle  with  the  wind  whistling  through 
it.  I  think — "  she  muttered,  staring  at  him,  her 
voice  now  swift,  smiting,  "you  yourself  are  the 
most  incredible  falsehood !" 

He  bent  lower,  his  complacent  cunning  on  her, 
his  sure  voice  about  her  as  a  net :  "And  this — De- 
metra!  When  I  saw  you  a  child,  I  thought  there 
was  a  wonderful  thing  in  you,  the  thing  that  might 
have  made  me  a  poet — I  wrote  verses  then — do  you 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  37 

remember?  God  knows  I  do  it  yet  sometimes  in 
the  back  rooms  of  working-men's  saloons  or  along 
the  open  road!  Yes,  sometimes  I've  loved  a  thing 
and  carried  it  until  it  was  worn  out — and  then  threw 
the  bit  of  paper  in  the  air,  to  the  ground,  and  let  it 
rot.  The  best  things  are  not  printed  nor  painted  nor 
sung." 

"Ah,  you — "  she  cried,  "I  remember!" 
"Well,  here  we  are.  You  have  come  to  be  com- 
mon enough — and  I  thought  I  saw  in  you  the  won- 
derful comrade — light  and  joy  and  soul.  I  could 
stand  in  delight  and  watch  a  miracle.  Eh,  well — 
here  we  are.  Can  you  see  a  sort  of  boy's  face  lit 
with  all  that  in  this,  now — a  gambler's  bullet  under 
my  jaw,  a  dirty  shirt,  fat,  well  on  the  way?  You 
have  come  to  be  common  enough — yourself,  a  trifle 
fat — and  more  than  thirty.  Eh,  let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing— keep  your  good  looks  as  long  as  you  can.  A 
pretty  woman  is  infinitely  more  interesting  than  a 
plain  one.  The  ugly  sister  falls  back,  she  accepts, 
deprecatingly — she  tries  to  please  with  a  dilettante 
false  offering  to  life,  to  defy  a  cruelty  of  nature. 
She  can  not  come  to  us  with  a  challenge ;  the  mission 
of  beauty  is  its  sex  appeal.  Nature,  the  old  devil, 
knew  what  she  was  about,  but  you'd  better  assist 
her  all  you  can.  Can't  you  contrive  to  keep  from 
being  fat?" 

"I  am  content."  She  had  listened  to  his  garrulity  ; 
always  he  had  loved  to  talk,  silence  a  thing  not  to  be 
endured.  He  was  ever  pricking  the  bubble  and  blow- 


38  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

ing  the  next — but  she  wondered  now  at  her  accept- 
ance. "I've  married  a  good  man — I'm  helping  him. 
I'm  contented." 

"Yes,  as  women  are.  A  round  of  getting  up,  rub- 
bing the  sleep  from  your  eyes,  at  breakfast  in  a 
wrapper  while  the  good  man  reads  his  paper.  Then 
a  call  or  shopping  or  about  the  house,  and  to  bed 
at  night — snug,  warm,  cared  for  like  a  cow,  clean 
as  a  cat  by  a  fire.  Content — as  women  are." 

"What  have  you  done  with  life?  A  tramp  here 
at  your  father's  table?  Home  after  the  wreck  of  it 
all?  Your  mother's  fortune  thrown  to  the  wind? 
Hating  law,  society — incomprehensible?  I  think  I 
understand  much  that  used  to  bewilder  me — the  old 
days  when  I  think  you  loved  me." 

"The  old  days— when  I  said  I  did." 

She  stirred;  she  laughed  slightly;  she  drew,  before 
his  watching,  her  sensuousness :  "Tell  me,"  she  said, 
"what  was  I  to  you?" 

"A  harp — I  thought  some  day  I'd  carry  you  about 
to  play  on.  But  I  tired  of  you — I  was  right.  Now, 
you're  common  enough." 

"Yes?"    Her  stealth  taunted  him. 

"You  women,  all  of  you,  are  eaten  with  an  itch — 
money,  place,  to  have  the  eyes  of  men  follow  you,  to 
love." 

"Is  that  a  crime,  then?" 

"That's  all  you  live  for — that  is  the  secret  of  all 
your  heroisms.  A  woman  will  grind  her  fingers  off 
for  love,  but  the  greater  thing — that  is  beyond  her." 


MY   BROTHER'S   KEEPER  39 

"The  greater  thing?"  she  leaned  to  him,  her  show 
of  complacence  stirred:  "What's  that?" 

"A  thing  men  know.  To  go  out  in  the  daric  to- 
gether— a  hand  to  a  comrade — asking  nothing.  To 
love  without  gift,  without  profit,  without  passion." 

She  was  stilled,  then  asked  curiously:  "And  no 
woman  does  this?" 

"For  love  you  will  give  all.  That  is  your  temple 
— that  is  where  you  stop  and  dwell.  But  to  give 
all  and  ask  nothing — the  greater  thing  is  beyond 
you." 

,  The  wife  rose  and  went  to  look  from  the  window 
at  the  gray  spring  clouds  massing  above  the  lake. 
She  came  back  presently,  changed,  a  smiling,  eager 
mood,  as  one  ready  to  play  an  intimate,  friendly 
game. 

"Tell  me,  Herford,  am  I  changed?  Am  I  tHe 
little  ignorant  Polish  girl  whom  you  picked  up  to 
send  to  school,  to  learn  gentle  ways,  to  prove  herself, 
to  live  and  be  all — all?" 

He  looked  over  the  September  ripeness  of  Her 
body,  her  indolent  smile  conscious,  full,  daring  with 
power  in  the  game. 

"Changed  much!  You  were  then  a  thing  of 
dreams — a  suggestion  of  driving  power  in  you — a 
dramatic  dominance  to  come." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  remember  so  little.  I  have  tried  to  forget,  but 
I  owe  you  much.  A  girl  in  a  Galician  village — I 
remember  the  hideous  wooden  shoes  the  women 


40  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

wore  to  the  fields — the  toad-like  figures  of  the 
women — "  she  checked  herself,  drawing  a  sharp 
breath.  "The  other  day,  on  Wabash  Avenue,  I 
saw  a  picture  of  Millet's.  I  went  into  the  shop  and 
asked  to  see  the  print  and  I  took  it  to  the  front 
again  and  tore  it  up,  threw  it  in  the  street.  And  I 
went  out  without  paying  for  it — I  hated  to  remem- 
ber. Ah,  well !"  He  had  listened  with  acute  atten- 
tion. "I  suppose  I  would  be  that — or  worse — if 
you'd  not  given  me  a  chance  at  life.  Sometimes  I 
think  of  Poland — my  little  brothers  and  sisters — 
Joseph,  Stanislaus,  little  Marta — Ludovic.  I  have 
almost  forgotten  the  tongue!  And  then,  after  you 
came  and  went,  I  got  on,  some  way — I  had  a  driv- 
ing power  as  you  say.  And  no  matter,  now — this 
is  the  new  world  and  a  woman  must  find  her  life — 
live,  love.  I'm  happy." 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"No."  He  leaned  to  her,  and  laughed,  a  satiric 
melody. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  steadily.  "I  accept.  I  think 
of  nothing,  regret  nothing.  A  woman  can  go  to  the 
devil  in  spite  of  all  the  good  in  her;  and  a  man  can 
save  himself  in  spite  of  all  his  evil — that's  our 
piteous  disadvantage.  You  said  we  had  to  fight  back 
as  cats  fight — we  do.  But  I've  found  my  place. 
A  woman  can  make  wonderful  compromises  with 
life — she  has  to  do  it." 

"A    mollusk — clinging    to    a    rock.      Common 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  41 

enough — bought  with  a  ring  and  some  women's 
stuff — contented.  That's  a  woman's  compromise, 
yes." 

"Well,  I'm  the  wife,  now — the  American  wife — 
contented.  And  you,  Rand,  always  the  poseur,  filled 
with  magnificent  vanities.  What  have  you  given? 
YouVe  loved  nothing,  helped  nothing.  There's  not 
a  soul  that  cares  whether  you  live  or  die." 

Across  the  table  in  the  stillness  he  watched  her. 
Then,  abruptly,  he  rose.  "Where's  my  hat?" 

"On  the  floor  where  you  laid  it.    You're  going?" 

He  looked  down  from  under  the  range-beaten 
brim,  the  shadow  of  a  grimace  on  his  priest's  mouth. 
"Yes." 

She  glanced  to  the  window :  "It's  raining  now — 
it's  beginning  to  storm." 

"I  want  the  storm.    It's  honest." 

The  wife  watched  him  upturning  the  collar  of  his 
rough  coat.  He  slipped  the  blue  automatic  pistol 
from  one  pocket  to  the  other  to  ease  its  pressure  on 
his  leg. 

She  came  nearer  and  said  clearly :  "You've  killed 
a  man.  If  you  go  on  the  street  you  may  be  caught. 
That  would  be  a  bad  thing — you,  son  of  Stephen 
Rand,  of  the  supreme  court." 

He  laughed  now  loudly:  "And  is  that  of  what 
you  were  thinking?  And  your  fat  berth  by  the  fire 
—your  husband — your  tabby  content — you'd  not 
like  it  endangered  by  me,  eh?  That's  your  solici- 
tude?" 


42  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

She  looked  steadily  at  him ;  she  felt  in  command : 
"I've  come  through  much.  I've  made  my  place. 
I'm  the  wife  now — the  American  wife." 

He  noted  curiously  the  incisive  foreign  accent  of 
her  perfect  English;  she  had  indeed  nothing  to  recall 
another  life  than  this  and  her  odd  oriency,  her 
Byzantine  maturity,  rich,  complete,  a  cosmopolite. 

"Eh  ?"  He  gave  a  grudging  banter  of  admiration : 
"And  I  worked  the  miracle  of  you?  You'd  be  a 
peasant  in  the  fields,  or,  if  you'd  come  to  America, 
a  slattern  immigrant  woman  in  some  sweat-shop,  or 
a  miner's  wife  in  some  Slav  coal  town  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, or  an  ill-smelling  girl  of  the  weave  rooms  in 
Rand's  mills  in  northern  Alabama.  Good  God — and 
you  overbear  me  with  the  imperious  will  of  a  line 
of  emperors!  I  was  the  juggler  of  fate,  eh?  I  was 
a  wonder-worker  who  held  you  up  to  his  crystal, 
shook  the  ball  till  it  dazzled — and  at  once — see — the 
American  wife,  rich,  a  Sybarite,  the  air  of  an  em- 
press !" 

His  young-old  face  dropped  its  mask ;  he  had  the 
pleasure,  one  would  have  guessed,  of  a  maker  of 
intricate  and  beautiful  toys,  or  a  collector  of  curios, 
in  finding  for  his  pains  an  exquisite  and  unexpected 
virtu. 

"Eh,  well!"  he  went  on,  "it  is  a  good  role — the 
juggler.  It  is  simple,  too.  When  I'm  happy,  I 
sing;  when  I'm  sad,  I  weep;  when  the  rain  wets  me, 
I  shiver;  and  when  men  wrong  me,  I  curse.  And 
when  I  find  a  flower  by  me,  I  look  into  its  heart.  I 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  43 

would  write  the  poem  greater  than  the  Iliad,  only  it 
would  be  fool's  work  to  put  it  on  paper.  It  would  be 
common  enough  to  put  the  blaze  and  marvel  of  life 
between  cardboards." 

She  listened  in  odd  patience.  He  went  on,  disre- 
garding her,  through  the  dim  hall  and  out  into  the 
windy  afternoon.  Once  she  cried  to  him,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  hear.  She  saw  him  go  down  the  old 
walk  between  the  plain  grass  spaces,  open  the  heavy 
black  gate  and  step  to  the  pavement. 

Without  the  coping  Rand  came  upon  a  little  old 
man  trying  to  force  a  huge  umbrella  into  the  wind 
which  was  flicking  the  first  drops  of  rain  out  of  the 
east  The  old  man  looked  up;  he  broke  to  glad  sur- 
prise. 

"Herford — man!  They  said  ye'd  come!  Home — • 
lad!" 

"And  going  again.  Brother  John — you  old 
croaker — not  a  line  changed!" 

John  Bride  laughed;  he  cleared  his  long  white 
underbeard  from  his  red  chops;  his  cheek  smooth, 
clear  as  a  girl's.  His  fair  eyes  twinkled. 

"Hearty,  lad,  as  when  I  dandled  ye  in  the  old  east 
room  of  a  Sunday  visit.  D'ye  mind?  More  than 
thirty  years — four  and  thirty — six  and  thirty — 
Hoo!  It's  good  to  see  ye!" 

"You  dine  here  to-day,  I  take  it." 

"Every  Sunday  and  every  Thursday  night  for 
biUiards  wi'  Stephen.  We  have  no  missed  it  a  week 
since  sixty-two  unless  he  was  wi'oot  the  city." 


44  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"You  have  queer  taste,  John  Bride — to  dine  here. 
But  you  had  a  soul  in  you — you  stood  between  me 
and  many  a  bad  break  when  I  was  a  cub — when  they 
were  trying  to  hammer  divinity  into  me.  And  I 
was  fool  enough  to  let  them." 

Brother  John  laughed  softly,  fighting  on  with  his 
cotton  umbrella. 

"Boy,  where  awa'?    Ye  must  have  jist  come." 

"I  don't  know.     It's  a  little  matter." 

" Ye'r  leaving  this  dour  day  ?  See  here — wouldn't 
Stephie  see  ye  ?" 

"Stephie  and  I  can  see  more  than  we  desire  in 
less  time  than  this." 

John  laughed  again,  his  soft  ringing  chuckle. 

"There  was  never  much  need  of  speech  atween  ye. 
Come  on,  man.  Walk  a  bit — it'll  start  the  blood 
and  then  we'll  have  a  bit  of  Scotch  when  we  get 
home.  Ye  can  smell  the  smoke  o'  the  peat  in  it." 

But  at  the  corner  the  younger  man  stopped: 
"There  are  reasons  why  you'd  better  not." 

"Hoo,  man!  Ye'r  Stephen's  first-born  and  ye'r 
blood  o'  mine.  I  canna  see  a  cousin's  youngster  put 
off  so." 

Rand  watched  him  narrowly.  "You — what's  in 
you?  I'm  not  the  lad  I  was — nor  the  man  either." 

"I  never  was  scared  off  by  ye'r  daft  talk.  No 
honest  man's  afeard  o'  ye." 

They  went  on  from  the  precise  bareness  of  La 
Salle  Avenue,  westward  across  the  hushed  Sun- 
day traffic  of  meaner  streets,  leading  on  to  the  tene- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  43 

ments  and  dreary  walls  of  warehouses  under  the 
somber  clouds. 

"Look  here — "  Rand  had  grown  alert,  his  eyes 
keen  on  each  passer-by,  and  warily  intent  on  a  police- 
man on  a  passing  car —  'Svhere  are  we  going?" 

"A  bit  on.  By  the  railroad  a  block  from  the  big 
new  school/' 

"You  live  in  this  sort  of  place?" 

"On  a  bit.  They're  most  foreigners.  Ye  see  the 
block  beyond  ?  I  built  it — a  grand  property,  housin' 
forty  families.  Man,  they're  all  sorts  there — Jews, 
Irish,  Swedish  women,  Italians  and  south  of  Europe 
folk.  It's  a  babel  on  rent  day.  And  wi'  the  toddlers 
pourin'  out  o'  the  big  new  school  twice  each  day — 
it's  a  fearsome  crossin'  wi'  sixty  trains  a  day.  I'm 
flagman  there." 

Rand  stopped  him :  "Brother  John,  have  you  lost 
your  money?" 

"Lord  love  ye,  I  was  never  richer.  That  grand 
property — housin'  forty  families — I  built  it.  It's 
my  idea  for  the  men  in  the  gas  houses  and  the  yards 
beyond.  I  rooted  out  the  worst  rookery  in  the  city 
this  side  the  river  to  put  it  up." 

They  had  come  across  from  the  red  brick,  three- 
story  apartment  building  stretching  the  entire  block 
from  a  dingy  saloon  corner  to  where  the  railroad 
blocked  the  other  end.  There  were  six  entrances  up 
flights  of  bare,  well-kept  stairs  and  above  bulging 
bays  caught  the  sunshine  from  the  dirty  air.  Across 
from  it  a  gaunt  warehouse  wall  rose.  The  big  new 


46  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

school-house  was  beyond  the  railroad  crossing, 
where  it  stood  sharply  against  the  wilderness  of 
tenements,  of  blackened  small  factories  and  the  gas 
tanks  red,  slurred  in  the  failing  afternoon. 

"See  here;"  Rand  asked  again,  "you  said  you 
were  flagman?  I  remember  that  you  helped  build 
that  road.  When  I  was  at  Lake  Park  Academy  you 
were,  I  think,  on  the  board  of  directors,  John  Bride." 

"No  doubt.  There're  divideends  waitin'  me  this 
quarter.  I  stretched  legs  under  the  vice-president's 
round  table  last  week,  smoking  his  good  cigar.  Eh, 
what  are  ye  starin'  at  ?" 

"That  you're  some  sort  of  fool  yet.  You  flag 
the  crossing?" 

"Four  years  ago  the  St.  Paul  Limited  ran  down 
six  youngsters  on  this  crossin'  on  their  way  from  the 
big  school.  They're  a  poor  folk  about  and  the  wailin' 
of  the  foreign  mothers  ...  it  was  hard,  man.  I 
investigated  it  personally — I  put  this  bit  o'  road 
through  before  I  had  the  Scotch  burr  out  o'  my 
tongue — a  braw  chick  of  an  engineer.  Well,  the 
foreign  women  wailin'  and  the  men  mutterin' — it 
was  a  bad  crossin'  and  the  grades  are  not  yet  where 
they  should  be.  I  was  out  o'  harness,  lad — old  an' 
alone — and  that's  a  bad  thing.  Eh,  can  ye  under- 
stand ?  I  was  the  first  constructing  engineer  o'  the 
road,  the  first  superinteendent,  .man.  I  put  it  oot 
fra  all  the  West — all  the  thousands  of  miles  before 
they  merged  us.  Can  ye  see?  I  couldn't  give  it  up. 
I  wanted  to  go  in  harness.  And  after  the  Limited 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  47 

plowed  through  the  bairns  on  their  way  from  school 
I  asked  the  board  to  make  me  flagman,  as  I  was  to 
live  in  the  apartments  I'd  built  just  there.  The  board 
laughed  me  down.  Weel,  I  jist  went  on — the  super- 
intendent of  division  had  to  appoint  me.  The  board 
called  me  daft,  but  I  get  my  forty  dollars  a  month — 
a  flagman.5' 

"You  sit  in  this  box  and  warn  people  off  the  road 
— the  road  you  hold  stock  in?  Is  that  it,  Brother 
John?" 

"There's  more  than  a  man's  profit — I  get  divi- 
deends,  but  there's  that  beyond  a  man's  profit.  It 
was  na  for  that  we  put  it  oot  to  a'  the  Northwest." 

"Eh?" 

"There's  service.  The  road  made  me,  man — this 
mighty  America  made  me.  I  came  from  Edinboro 
an  immigrant  in  steerage,  penniless  as  any  that  walks 
the  street,  comin'  to  find  my  cousin,  Stephen.  Ye'r 
line  had  been  from  Linlithgow  for  two  hundred 
years,  but  blood  is  strong  i'  the  North — we'd  kept  the 
connection.  And  ye'r  father  put  me,  a  raw  cub  of  a 
student  surveyor,  to  railroading.  That's  how  I  came 
to  mother  this  bit  o'  track — and  beyond  west,  man, 
west!  That  was  auld  John  Bride's  service — 
drivin'  it  oot  through  snow  and  desert,  and  through 
forty  years  watchin'  it  grow — the  road,  and  on  it  the 
people  came  pourin' — all  the  peoples.  Lord  love  ye, 
man,  I've  stood  by  the  track  mony  a  day,  the  red 
flag  in  my  hand  with  the  same  auld  thrill — a  train 
comes  up  frae  the  heart  o'  the  town  and  roarin'  off 


48  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

to  the  West  bearin'  the  mony  peoples.  I'll  stand 
here  'til  I  drop,  lad — in  harness.  I'm  na  useless 
yet  wi'  the  flag  in  my  hands,  servin'  as  the  road 
serves.  There's  that  beyond  a  man's  profit." 

The  son's  eyes  were  on  John  Bride  as  he  stood 
that  day,  a  blink  of  the  sun  breaking  the  April 
clouds  and  lighting  his  reddened  face,  his  old  eyes 
on  the  right  of  way.  There,  between  the  dun  and 
mighty  walls  of  the  city's  commerce,  under  the  over- 
hanging cloud  above  Chicago,  this  gorged  meeting- 
place,  the  glut  of  races,  the  crucible,  ran  the 
road,  the  shining  rails  curving  to  the  Northwest. 
Spanning  the  land  to  sea,  spreading  to  right,  to  left, 
it  came,  pouring  the  exhaustless  treasure  of  blood, 
the  long-pent  myriads,  the  beaten  people  of  the 
defeated  races,  on  to  the  mighty  making,  the  illimit- 
able ages  of  their  destiny. 

In  the  murk  above  the  wet  cinders  a  far  switch- 
man had  hung  a  red  lamp.  The  stranger  watched  it 
as  the  old  man  cleaned  his  feet  at  the  stair  nearest 
the  road's  crossing. 

"Come  up — come  up — "  said  John  Bride. 

"See  here,"  Rand  answered,  "it's  best  you  know 
I've  killed  a  man." 

"Come  up,"  John  Bride  repeated.  "It's  wet, 
wi'oot." 

"You  fool,"  the  hunted  man  retorted,  "I  killed 
Marty,  the  guard.  You'd  best  not  shelter  me." 

"I  heard  ye.    ...    Come  on." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  old  man  opened  the 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  49 

door  to  the  narrow  hall  of  a  flat.  They  went  along 
this  passage  past  dark  little  rooms  to  the  one  that 
seemed  a  dining-room.  It  had  a  round  table,  chairs, 
a  littered  sideboard,  all  seeming  cheaply  pretentious, 
middle-classy,  an  attempt  at  woodcarvers'  ornate- 
ness,  suggesting  the  department  store  displays.  The 
host  lit  the  gas,  and  bustled  about  with  his  coat  and 
rubbers.  The  guest  sat  down  in  silence,  staring  at 
the  crude,  bright  tinting  of  the  walls,  a  calendar  the 
sole  decoration.  The  single  window  looked  on  a 
very  clean  white  airshaft  and  across  this,  at  an  ob- 
tuse angle  was  another  facing.  This  window,  in 
the  blur  of  the  rainy  evening,  was  a  patch  of  uncer- 
tain light,  across  which  a  shadow  moved. 

"You've  a  neighbor,"  said  Rand — "a  woman.    I 
don't  like  them  about.    Who  is  she?" 

"A  bit  of  a  quiet  girl.    A  Jew  girl  who  does  type- 
writing for  the  professor  at  the  big  house." 

"Ennisley  ?"  Rand  started,  turning  to  him. 

"Yes,  the  cracked  socialist  professor  the  papers 
are  caterwauling  about.  This  Louise  goes  there 
each  day.  She  got  his  attention  by  teaching  some 
of  the  children  hereabout  that  work  days.  I  gave 
her  the  basement  and  put  in  fifty  chairs  to  start.  It's  > 
a  fine  night  school  now,  but  she's  gone  wi'  the  pro- 
fessor to  bigger  work.  She's  a  great-eyed  quiet 
girl — I  think  a  bit  daft  on  reforming  matters." 

"It's  a  queer  place  for  a  woman  to  live  alone." 

"I  give  her  the  flat  cheap.    She  can  keep  an  eye 
on  the  class  of  Slavs  she  started,  and  she'd  rather 


50  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

be  here.  She  comes  and  goes,  a  still  pleasant  body- — 
lonely,  I  doubt  not,  except  for  her  work.  A  foreign 
born  girl — there's  none  aboot  me  but  new  peoples, 
pushin'  in,  eager,  quarrelin' — God  listen  to  the  mony 
tongues  of  them !  Hoo,  this  Chicago !  The  marvel 
of  it.  ...  Ye'r  of  an  auld  line  of  America,  man 
— if  there  is  such.  Two  hundred  years  of  it  and  be- 
yond that,  Scotch  blood  till  the  time  of  Bruce  and 
on.  Ye'r  line  has  fought  every  war  the  land  saw. 
It  built  on  west  and  west  wi'  the  frontier.  But  ye'r 
day's  done — here's  the  new  people  pourin'  along  the 
road." 

The  other  man  listened  indifferently,  watching 
the  shadow  on  the  window  light  across,  the  spatter 
of  the  rain  making  it  a  field  of  gold,  a  translucent 
crystal,  hung  now  in  darkness. 


CHAPTER   III 

ENNISLEY  dropped  his  traveling-case  by  the 
door  of  the  rooms  given  to  their  indefinite 
stay  in  Stephen  Rand's  house ;  he  turned,  still  in  his 
wet  light  overcoat,  to  his  wife;  he  kissed  her  and 
then  held  her  off,  his  eyes  shining  with  their  grate- 
ful, hungry  pleasure. 

"Demetra!  You  waited  for  me!  It's  very  late. 
The  train  was  delayed  at  Grand  Crossing — hours.  I 
put  in  every  minute,  though,  over  the  notes.  How's 
my  little  Tad? — how's  mother?" 

She  smiled  back  at  his  eager  eyes  going  now 
around  the  warm-lit  room.  There  was  ever  this 
pathos  about  the  man  reaching  to  her  in  his  ardent 
fashion — to  her,  and  to  his  home-spot  for  surcease, 
shelter,  sympathy.  His  sturdy  youngish  figure,  his 
fine  brown-bearded  face,  its  earnest  eyes  a  trifle  sad 
with  the  detached  self-centering  of  the  dreamer, 
the  brow  high,  white,  the  stubborn  hair — a  clean 
boy's  way  of  greeting  one,  of  meeting  issues  openly, 
simply ;  this  had  been  the  spell  he  cast,  this  had  been 
his  success.  The  dreaming  had  bred  action,  he  had, 
indeed,  "come  up  fighting,"  his  face  had  compact 
purpose;  he  was  an  idealist  capable  of  fanatical 

51 


52  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

tenacity  and  with  faiths  at  odd  variance  with  the 
scientific  quality  of  his  mind;  it  was  this  union  that 
made  his  class-room  lectures  of  such  absorbing  inter- 
est to  the  attentive  young  thought  of  the  university. 
He  was  not  patient  nor  politic ;  he  could  be  Jesuitical 
in  his  radical  utterances,  he  could  clothe  them  in  a 
waspish  brilliance.  It  was  this  that  had  pushed  him 
to  the  forefront  of  every  problem  engaging  him;  he 
was  superbly  alive  to  the  importance  of  modernity, 
its  acute  receptivity,  its  inspiring  freedom.  It 
seemed  the  day  for  doing,  and  his  mind  was  ever 
pushing  to  extremes  of  sociological  thought,  prick- 
ing lagging  conditions — he  was  little  given  to  realiz- 
ing his  responsibilities,  nor  the  long  processes  of 
advancement.  He  was,  therefore,  a  man  distrusted 
by  representative  social  thinkers,  and  savagely  as- 
sailed by  the  obtuse  commercial  hegemony  of  the 
American  idea.  He  had  truth  with  him  and  he  used 
it  to  sting;  it  was  this  inability  to  answer  on  com- 
mon ground  that  made  his  opponents  writhe,  actu- 
ally to  hate  him,  denouncing  him  "visionary,"  "un- 
sound," "fanatical." 

And  his  lovable  personality  and  thought,  the 
splendid  crusading  spirit  of  youth,  cloaked  his  icon- 
oclasm  with  a  large  valor ;  he  loved  his  work  amaz- 
ingly, he  delighted  in  its  doubtful  fighting  issues  as 
will  the  gentle  soul  to  whom  is  clear  the  noble  need 
of  war.  For  seven  years  he  had  fought  for  the  child 
labor  reform  laws  with  pen  and  tongue,  importuning 
in  lobby  and  committee  rooms  in  not  only  half  a 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  53 

dozen  state  capitals,  but  at  Washington.  He  stood, 
in  fact,  a  national  figure  in  this,  because  of  his  bitter 
moral  visualization  of  that  aspect  of  it,  which  ap- 
pealed to  every  mind  sharing  the  modern  restlessness 
against  the  mere  American  idea,  the  squat,  brutish 
commercial  aggrandizement,  that,  in  the  building 
of  the  land,  justified  itself  as  business,  the  proper 
purpose  of  the  republic. 

With  his  coat  off  he  turned  again  to  clasp  his  wife, 
who  yielded  with  a  soft  engaging  condescension  to 
the  pleasure.  Always  to  him,  it  seemed,  he  should 
cast  away  care  with  her,  and  in  this  room.  "How's 
my  boy?"  he  repeated.  "When  you  wrote,  Demetra, 
to  Washington,  he  wasn't  well.  I  suppose  that  har- 
ness chafes  him — and  he'll  have  to  wear  it  ten 
months,  the  doctor  said.  Poor  little  Tad !" 

"He  has  a  slight  cold.  Ellen  tucked  him  away 
early.  Your  mother  wanted  to  sleep  within  hearing, 
in  the  nursery  to-night,  but  I  persuaded  her  it  was 
not  needful." 

The  young  father's  eager  eyes  softened.  He 
loved  the  voice  of  this  woman,  who  had  come  to 
take  the  place  of  Bertie's  dead  mother,  the  simple 
little  mid- West  mother  as  unlike  this  second  wife, 
this  splendid  full-breasted  creature  with  her  foreign 
air,  as  the  wild  rose  of  her  Iowa  prairies  was  un- 
like the  flare  of  a  chrysanthemum.  Ennisley's 
mind  went  back  to  the  days  with  Jessie  and  her 
baby's  birth — the  pitiful  little  twisted  figure  which 
had  been  in  braces  from  its  second  year — the  days 


54  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

when,  with  his  country-bred  wife,  he  had  been  a 
sorry,  ill-fledged  instructor  in  an  inland  sectarian 
college  choking  his  ardent  life.  It  seemed  that  he 
had  come  up  wonderfully  in  the  short  years,  since 
Jessie's  death,  to  mate  with  this  other  woman,  whose 
gowning  stamped  her  indubitably  as  of  another 
world. 

When  she  came  near  him  now,  the  fragrance 
of  her  hair,  neck,  breath,  bodice  struck  him  with  its 
sense  of  her  completeness.  He  thought  of  her  at 
times,  a  trifle  awed,  giving  him  the  feeling  that  he 
had  come  upon  the  reincarnation,  as  it  were,  of  a 
Roman  matron — though  glossed  with  superficial 
modernity,  she  stood  near  the  primal  mothers,  their 
latent  power,  their  terrible  nobleness.  He  loved 
her  passionately,  but  he  seemed  to  grasp  behind  this 
a  strange  duality  for  each  of  them.  He  looked  on 
himself,  his  common  and  thorough  American  blood 
and  breeding,  as  able  to  typify  the  coming  man  for 
the  mightier  race;  a  parent  stock  needing  for  its 
recrudescence  out  of  the  money-getting  traditions 
encrusting  the  later  republic,  the  best  the  simpler 
peoples  offered,  the  flux  of  their  untainted  life 
stream  flowing  immemorially  through  peasant  veins 
to  obscure  destinies.  And  in  this  foreign  wife  he 
had  found  the  symbol  for  the  union,  she,  with  her 
origin  of  a  common  stock,  risen  to  the  highest — that 
was  to  be  the  glory  of  this  new  land,  the  mating  of 
the  races,  the  flowering  of  the  best  of  each  to  all. 
To  this  conception,  this  eugenic  law,  he  gave  him- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  55 

self  with  a  seer's  passion.  Even  now  he  dreamed  she 
was  to  have  a  child  by  him  within  the  year.  It 
should  be  a  son  to  be  reared  greatly,  to  be  great,  to 
exemplify  the  New  American,  past  the  gross  era,  the 
barbaric  conquest  and  travail  of  the  land. 

He  released  his  wife's  warm  hands.  "Mother — •- 
it's  like  her — she  couldn't  trust  the  nurse  or  any 
hired  service,  any  more  than  she  can  reconcile  her- 
self to  seeing  us  have  soup  at  dinner.  In  Iowa,  none 
but  a  sick  person  is  ever  given  soup !" 

He  laughed  fondly,  calling  up  his  little  mid- West 
mother. 

The  wife  smiled :  "She's  gone  to  bed,  worrying 
as  usual,  when  you  are  out  after  nine-thirty.  I  drove 
her  to  the  Easter  service  at  Trinity — she  was  quite 
overcome  by  it  all — in  fact,  appalled !" 

He  brooded  a  moment  on  his  wife's  unchanged 
placidity.  Then  he  went  on:  "No,  don't  bother 
about  anything  to  eat,  dear.  I  had  a  bit  on  the  train, 
and  I'm  too  fagged  to  bother  about  more.  We  had 
a  tough  time  at  the  last  conference — the  situation  is 
pretty  strained  down  there.  I  couldn't  get  much 
concession  from  the  mill  owners;  I'll  make  another 
appeal  to  Judge  Rand.  If  he'll  abolish  night  work 
for  the  children  and  shorten  the  hours,  we'll  have  a 
big  point  gained.  If  this  strike  hadn't  come  on  now 
just  when  we  had  him — the  biggest  operator  in  the 
Randsville  district — almost  won  over!" 

"Louise  called  up,"  the  wife  said  irrelevantly. 
"She  said  a  lot  of  mail  had  accumulated  and  she 


56  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

would  bring  it  from  your  office  if  I  thought  you'd 
be  home  to-night.  I  couldn't  assure  her." 

His  face  lightened :  "It's  like  the  girl — how  she 
watches  things  for  me !  She's  worked  nights  down 
in  that  little  flat  in  John  Bride's  block  compiling 
data  so  that  when  I  write  that  report  to  the  commis- 
sion we  can  breeze  through  it  in  no  time !" 

His  wife  smiled ;  she  was  used  to  this  enthusiasm 
when  Louise  Hergov,  the  secretary,  was  mentioned ; 
a  world  of  work  and  dreams,  vital,  glowing  hazards 
and  victories  in  which  she  had  no  comradeship, 
but  she  grudged  nothing.  There  was  a  trifle  of  con- 
descension in  this  tolerance;  she  had,  in  fact,  a 
secret  feeling  that  Corbett  was  rather  swayed  by 
this  quiet  secretary,  a  Jewish  girl,  whom  he  had 
found,  a  colorless  school  teacher  in  a  tenement  dis- 
trict, who  had  been  a  Hull  House  resident,  and 
much  interested  in  a  settlement  on  Larrabee  Street 
which  Ennisley  had  founded  in  the  days  of  his 
lesser  life.  It  was  there  he  met  her.  The  foreign 
wife  seemed  to  discover  in  him,  in  his  enthusiasms, 
his  impulsive  mannerisms,  nothing  of  the  brilliant 
leadership  which  his  name  meant  to  the  world.  She 
had  wondered  at  times  if  the  last,  rough  attribute  of 
the  fighting  man  was  not  lacking  in  him.  She  had  the 
cosmopolite's  disdain  of  the  proselyting  spirit,  of  the 
crusading  need — she  looked  on  the  man's  soul  with 
a  complacent  curiosity;  it  was  a  many- faceted  jewel 
of  whose  splendor  there  was  no  doubt,  whatever  its 
intrinsic  worth. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  57 

"And  the  papers — the  Manufacturers'  Record, 
which  Louise  brought  here — it  attacked  you  very 
bitterly,  didn't  it?" 

He  smiled  indulgently  at  her  obvious  intent  of 
sympathy,  wondering  if  she  would  ever  really  un- 
derstand. In  the  better  light  by  her  table  where  he 
sat,  she  saw  a  new  worn  and  haggard  look  on  his 
face.  "I  don't  believe  you've  slept  at  all.  Corbett, 
you're  aging  under  all  this  strife  you  stir  up  con- 
stantly." 

He  laughed  again,  pulling  his  brown  beard;  his 
tired  eyes  grew  merry. 

"O,  if  a  man  had  three  heads  and  enough  brains 
to  fill  'em !  And  six  pairs  of  stout  hands — why  then 
— I'd  still  want  more !  There's  so  much  to  do !" 

"I  don't  suppose  you  ever  rested  in  your  life," 
she  went  on.  "Your  mother  says  she  never  saw 
you  still  for  a  moment." 

His  eyes  closed,  he  lay  back  in  a  reverie  for  once : 
"Little  mother — who  couldn't  find  her  God  in  a  big 
city  church  on  Easter !  No,  I  suppose  she  was  simply 
overwhelmed !" 

He  remembered  the  church  life  of  his  boyhood  in 
the  mid-West.  The  First  Methodist  Church  stand- 
ing square,  white  clapboarded  among  the  young 
elms,  the  hitching  rail  before  it  in  the  village  dust; 
the  Wednesday  evening  prayer  meetings,  the  Ep- 
worth  League  socials,  the  Sewing  Circle  where  the 
ladies  each  year  filled  four  boxes  with  cast-off  but 
neatly  repaired  clothes  to  be  sent  to  the  families  of 


58  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

needy  preachers  off  somewhere  or  other — his  boy's 
imagination  always  pictured  that  and  winced  at  it. 
He  seemed  to  have  begun  his  long  knight-errantry 
of  thought  from  that,  a  visualization  of  the  unknown 
preachers'  children,  in  pitiful,  clean,  proud  beggary, 
about  the  annual  box  sent  from  the  First  M.  E. 
Church  of  Iowa  Center,  and  containing  his  own  re- 
juvenated short  pants  and  frayed  blouses.  He  had 
been  acute  with  the  shame  of  it — there  seemed  need 
in  the  world  of  fighting  men,  and  not  a  box  of  old 
clothes  sent  by  good  women,  to  redress  the  wrongs 
of  meager  children.  That  thought  had  sent  him  on, 
had  been  with  him  through  his  hard-won  college 
course,  his  ill-paid  years  as  an  instructor  at  his  alma 
mater,  with  his  country  wife  and  crippled  child,  de- 
pendent on  his  ability  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  to  his 
growing  doubts,  his  heresies  of  creed  and  social  doc- 
trine, the  bitterness  of  his  repression;  on  and  on  to 
the  splendid  years  of  freedom,  of  achievement;  to 
lead  the  fighting  line,  to  be  the  daring  raider  far  in 
advance  of  one  of  the  great  causes. 

And  the  little  mother  had  come  frightened  along 
this  way;  from  filling  the  mission  boxes  and  enter- 
taining the  minister  with  the  best  of  the  "put-up 
fruit,"  and  occasionally  being  invited  out  to  drive  in 
his  rattling  old  surrey  with  his  wife  and  babies — 
from  this  to  the  startling  Now,  when  she  went  to 
a  gorgeous  Easter  rite,  dim,  mysterious,  inordinate, 
sent  and  called  for  in  Justice  Rand's  carriage,  at  her 
side  on  the  cushions  this  luxurious,  foreign  wife  of 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  59 

her  successful  son — it  was,  indeed,  a  miracle !  And 
she  was  frightened — miracles  belong  properly  in  the 
Old  Testament 

A  step  had  come.  Ennisley  looked  about.  He 
rose  with  his  warm  boy's  grasp  of  a  little  woman's 
hands;  his  mother  was  before  him.  He  smothered 
her  invariable  depreciating  quaver,  the  reticence  of 
the  mid-West  pioneering  woman  to  demonstrations 
of  affection — he  laughed  delightedly,  held  her  off  to 
look  at  her. 

She  had  got  from  bed  to  meet  him,  hearing  his 
coming;  hastily  bundling  into  her  "church  dress," 
the  things  left  at  hand.  The  lace  collarette  was  un- 
hooked, hanging  unkempt,  her  sallow  neck  was  bare, 
her  flatness  of  breast,  her  hardness  of  speech  and 
awkwardness — never  had  she  come  beyond  the 
backwoods  rearing  of  the  Pennsylvania  mountains, 
everywhere  she  lacked  relief  and  resonance,  she  was 
a  dried  leaf  flapping  against  a  wall  in  November, 
accenting  the  bleak  day. 

"I  expected  it!"  the  son  cried,  "I  tried  to  tiptoe 
past  your  room — I  knew  you'd  get  up  to  assure 
yourself  that  I  had  not  been  run  over  or  drowned 
on  the  way  home.  Mother,  you'll  have  to  be  dis- 
ciplined !" 

"My  Corbetty,"  she  quavered.  She  had  named 
him  after  some  unknown  martyr  she  had  read  of 
decades  ago  in  the  Christian  Herald  who  had  gone 
to  Uganda  and  been  speared  by  the  natives  after 
Communion ;  only  to  be  scandalized  years  later  when 


60  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

a  popular  pugilist  of  the  name  uprose  to  be  ever 
after  associated,  somehow,  in  her  mind,  and  sinfully, 
with  the  missionary  winging  his  way  to  Heaven, 
and  what  was  worse,  with  her  son's  career.  Many 
a  prayer  she  had  uttered  for  the  trinity :  her  second- 
born  ;  the  martyr,  speared  and,  likely  as  not,  baked 
thereafter;  and  the  prize-fighter,  that  he  be  led  from 
the  way  of  Sodom. 

"My  boy!"  she  went  on,  and  then  they  were  si- 
lent in  the  primal  trust,  mother  and  son,  overarching 
all  her  occasional  fears  and  doubts.  He  had  gone  far 
from  her  faith,  her  ways  of  life;  she  could  not  com- 
prehend his  work  and  position,  the  dim  realization 
she  had  of  him  as  an  object  of  invective  and  attack, 
of  fighting  deeds  and  splendid  purposes — she  could 
understand  nothing  at  all;  but  she  could  flutter  to 
his  breast,  and  know,  by  his  fond  un  fear  ing  eyes, 
that  he  was  her  boy  and  unchanged — God  did  not 
make  such  men  for  doubt  nor  dishonor. 

The  old  lady  saw  his  wife's  eyes  on  them  in  this 
embrace,  her  composed  smile.  This  second  woman 
he  had  married?  .  .  .  Well,  she  was  unlike  any- 
thing Mrs.  Ennisley  had  dreamed  of — foreign  peo- 
ple to  her  had  always  been  the  bewhiskered  Russian 
who  had  bought  a  forty  of  the  farm,  guttural,  un- 
couth, his  wife  wearing  a  flaming  headcloth  of  some 
sort  and  huge  shoes.  But  this  foreign  wife  of  Cor- 
bett's — a  superb  creature,  suggesting  art  calendars — 
the  Iowa  mother  concealed  what  of  her  awe  and  dis- 
trust she  could.  It  seemed  the  wife  took  too  easily, 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  61 

this  furtive  half- fear,  half-veneration,  the  shy,  moth- 
ering desire  to  love  and  be  understood — that  she 
was  too  idly  tolerant,  condescending,  letting  things 
go  as  they  fell. 

Corbett  had  concealed  his  hurts  at  her  occasional 
enigmatic  smile  upon  this  homely,  confiding  mother 
love.  They  were  as  far  apart  as  the  poles,  the  wife 
with  her  astonishing  verisimilitude  of  old-world 
caste  and  place,  the  mother  with  that  lean-necked, 
insecure  mentality  of  the  pioneering  woman — a  tribe 
of  the  era  of  graham  bread  and  Epsom  salts  after 
the  generation  of  cornbread  and  sidemeat — a  race  of 
women  who  gave  their  stomachs  to  found  an  empire 
and  acquired  a  querulant  dyspepsia  to  suckle  giants 
for  the  land. 

"My  boy,"  she  said  again,  in  that  Puritanic  dis- 
sembling of  sentiment  of  which  the  West  has  in- 
herited overmuch,  "  'pears  like  I  never  can  git  to 
see  you  any  more — -traipsin'  off  to  Alabama  and  then 
Washington  and  land  knows  where  next!  Tears 
like  we  never  git  a  chance  to  say  howdy  to  each  other 
any  more." 

Corbett  laughed:  "Little  mother,  some  day  I'll 
lay  off  harness — a  whole  week,  and  we'll  run  out  to 
Iowa  Center  when  strawberries  are  ripe,  and  Archie 
and  I  will  loaf  in  our  shirtsleeves  and  cut  the  old 
lawn  and  fish  the  same  old  creeks." 

"I  see  you,"  she  returned,  with  playful  disdain, 
"when  yore  dead  and  buried,  you'll  rest.  I  come 
clown  here  a  week  Thursday,  and  you  only  been 


62  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

home  three  nights  seems  to  me.  'Tain't  natural  for 
a  body  to  go  traipsin'  so." 

"I  had  to  go  on  to  Washington,"  he  smiled. 
"Hungerford  wanted  to  see  me  about  the  draft  of 
the  Ford  bill.  I  rushed  back  soon  as  I  could  just 
to  be  with  you,  mother — you  and  Demetra,  and  my 
little  Tad." 

She  knew  of  Hungerford — a  brilliant  congress- 
man of  one  of  the  audacious  states  beyond  the  Mis- 
souri. Only  the  other  week  she  had  read  in  the 
Green  County  Republican,  on  the  "patent  inside" 
that  he  was  a  leader  of  the  "insurgents,"  and  Rural 
Life  had  denounced  his  attitude  as  to  the  duty  on 
hides.  She  was  not  sure  of  Hungerford,  and  of  the 
enticings  of  the  great  world  for  her  boy — Rural  Life 
had  called  the  Kansan  a  "traitor." 

"Land,  what  big  men  you  do  meet  East,"  she  went 
on,  "going  to  New  York  and  them  places  like  they 
were  Oskaloosa  or  Des  Moines.  New  York  must  be 
a  pretty  place,"  she  added  plaintively,  "a  body  reads 
so  much  about  it." 

He  repressed  his  smile,  seeing  on  his  wife's  face 
one  that  he  wished  was  averted.  "Mother,"  he  cried 
gaily,  "some  day  we'll  make  a  trip  and  I'll  introduce 
you  to  the  president.  And  by  the  way,  I'm  to  lunch 
with  him  before  the  session's  over." 

"Eatin'  with  the  president!"  she  now  went  on. 
"Corbetty,  what  next  is  a-goin'  to  happen  to  you  ?" 

He  laughed  in  his  proud  exultance — it  had  thrilled 
him  as  did  his  joy  of  work — that  flush  of  happiness 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  63 

which  only  the  success  of  young  days  gives  when 
there  is  no  sequent-wisdom  to  lessen  the  greatness 
of  achievement.  "The  president?  Why,  mother,  I 
talked  with  him  last  week.  He's  a  bully  fellow — 
you'd  like  him.  He'd  make  you  think  of  Archie — 
sure  he  would !  Same  way  of  tearing  into  things  as 
that  country  editor  brother  of  mine  in  a  fall  elec- 
tion!" He  went  across  to  take  her  hands  again, 
laughing  still:  "Mother,  it's  fine  to  mix  with  big 
men,  even  if  you  have  to  fight  'em !  It  clears  your 
brain — it  makes  you  climb  out  of  bed  in  the  morning 
and  sting  yourself  with  a  cold  bath  and  jump  into 
your  fighting  clothes  and  get  back  to  the  game — to 
put  heart  and  mind  and  hand  against  the  biggest — 
and  know  that  they're  feeling  you !  Why,  it's  simply 
great !" 

She  looked  her  fond  dismay:  "Corbetty,  some 
day  you'll  break  down  with  all  this  jumpin'  round. 
It  ain't  natural  to  be  carryin'  on  so.  Ain't  so,  De- 
metry?" 

She  forced  her  brief  little  diffident  laugh  as  always- 
she  did  when  addressing  this   foreign  wife,   this 
daughter  that  she  couldn't  understand.    "Ain't  so?" 

Demetra  smiled  indolently:  "These  American 
men  are  such  tremendous  dynamos — they're  like 
eager  children  with  their  loves  and  hates  and  ambi- 
tions running  and  screaming  in  the  sun." 

The  professor  laid  back,  putting  his  hands  to- 
gether, looking  upward. 

"I  suppose  I  have  all  their  faults,"  he  began.    "I 


64  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

suppose  we  nationally  lack  repose,  a  consciousness 
of  continuity,  of  tradition  or  philosophical  perspec- 
tive. We  don't  know  enough  to  be  tired — world- 
tired — with  all  our  questions  answered  and  demands 
refuted  as  they've  been  refuted  in  older  civilizations. 
But  that's  the  grand  thing — this  sense  of  newness, 
this  lack  of  tradition — we're  going  far  to  hack  out 
big  things  for  our  own.  We're  only  hammering 
away  roughly,  but  there'll  be  no  moral  or  spiritual 
uplift  until  the  rough  things  are  hammered  smooth." 
And  with  the  loosening  of  his  thoughts  he  went  on 
in  his  swift  pedantry  of  the  class-room,  fired  with  his 
charm  of  discourse,  his  fighting  way — "But  it's  the 
world-consciousness,  now — a  world-faith,  now  that 
God's  a  mere  naturalistic  motive — a  law  behind  the 
chemistry  and  mechanics.  It  seems  that  has  to  be 
our  only  religion,  our  only  light — truth."  He  looked 
a  bit  self-conscious,  glancing  at  his  mother.  She 
did  not  understand  the  least  of  it ;  she  watched  him 
in  admiration.  "To  make  a  rough  way  for  the 
better  type  to  come  and  have  its  turn  at  the  problem. 
And  here — this  wonderful  America!  There  never 
was  such  a  chance  for  the  higher  evolution — the 
new,  splendid  man.  Dear — "  he  addressed  the  wife, 
idling  at  the  piano  now,  listening  to  him  with  the 
detached  interest  which  she  had  always  for  his  ar- 
dors— "it  comes  right  down  to  that.  It's  why  we're 
fighting  to  prevent  the  little  Polack  emigrant  girls 
and  the  hill  cracker  children  from  standing  on  their 
feet  eleven  hours  a  night  at  Rand's  mills — they  must 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  65 

be  the  mothers  for  the  great  process.  If  only  we  all 
could  see  the  worth  of  the  human  animal — the  mere 
struggling  type  of  nature  seeking  to  rise !  That's  my 
philosophy — that's  why  I'm  fighting." 

The  little  collarless  woman,  her  scrawny  neck  and 
flat  bosom  of  the  patient,  tired,  untutored  western 
mother  of  pioneering  adventures,  listened,  awed — it 
reminded  her,  some  way  or  other,  of  his  high  school 
valedictory !  She  remembered  her  beating  heart  that 
June  morning,  with  the  big  main  room  hushed  and 
the  humming-birds  in  the  window's  jessamine — she 
rose  with  her  droll  and  pathetic  negation :  "  Tears 
like  a  body  just  could  sit  here  all  night  and  listen  to 
you.  But  it's  eleven  and  after,  and  decent  folks  are 
all  abed.  My  boy,  you're  tired,  and  Demetry,  that 
light  ain't  fit  for  a  body's  eyes  on  that  piano." 

The  wife  glanced  easily  at  her.  When  the  mother 
had  gone,  after  her  good  nights,  they  were  quiet. 
Corbett's  mind  went  back  to  his  hard  youth,  the 
grind  of  his  career — college  debater,  star  thesis 
man,  his  struggling  tutorship — always  behind  him 
in  his  mother  and  first  wife  the  simple  faith  and 
pioneering  strength  of  home-keeping  women.  And 
Demetra  could  never  see  it  all ;  she  had  seemed  con- 
tent to  settle  back,  sheltered,  bringing  nothing  to 
his  eager  life,  his  buoyant  dreams — a  reverie  of 
living — and  he  loved  her  so ! 

From  this  hungry  thought  his  mind  went  to  his 
work  for  solace.  "I  went  to  a  meeting  of  the  strikers 
Thursday.  Demetra,  it  was  pathetic — the  men  and 


66  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

children- — they  want  so  to  learn,  to  find  a  way. 
There's  a  curious  mixture  there — the  native  hill 
crackers  and  the  south  of  Europe  emigrants  enticed 
over  here  by  agents  and  dumped  into  the  mills — what 
an  awakening!  Dirty,  ignorant — foreign.  Most  of 
Rand's  are  Polacks." 

"Poles?"  the  wife  smiled.   "Corbett,  I'm  one!" 

He  laughed  deprecatingly,  caught  her  again  in  his 
boy's  way:  "Dear  heart — you're  Demetra — my 
wife  .  .  .  always  kind  and  true !" 

She  drew  his  brown  head  down — she  was  so  sure 
of  him,  her  power  over  him — yet  she  felt  his  hurt. 
Marriage  had  not  been  to  her  what  he  had  dreamed 
— his  idealizing  enwrapped  it  as  it  did  his  outer  life 
— he  wanted  it  full,  complete  in  each  ineffable  rela- 
tion of  soul,  mind,  body.  Love,  its  delicious  stealth, 
its  long  embraces,  the  inordinate  worship  of  the 
senses — he  was  a  man  to  feel,  exult  here  as  splen- 
didly as  in  his  mighty  quests  for  the  race  .  .  . 
and  it  seemed  she  could  not  understand.  He  would 
have  blent  his  blood  and  soul  with  hers  for  this  race- 
dream,  to  bring  the  ennobling  type  through  parent- 
hood, and  she  could  not  see. 

But  always  he  was  seeking;  he  murmured  now: 
"A  man's  big  work,  a  fight,  and  from  it  all  to  have 
a  home  to  come  to — and  you,  dear,  you !" 

It  appeared  to-night  she  was  curiously  shaken, 
creeping  nearer  him.  She  whispered:  "Yes — and 
O,  my  husband,  love  me!" 

And  in  one  of  those  rare,  unifying  silences  which 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  67 

come  before  the  complacent  disillusionment  of  the 
five-year's  married  is  complete,  cattle-like,  they  sat. 
Indeed,  he  could  not  remember  when  she  had  seemed 
so  near,  so  dear,  so  under  his  hand.  He  had  given 
her  peace.  From  his  sore  battles  and  great  errantries 
he  had  found  time  for  patience,  faith,  love — he  had 
given  and  she  had  accepted.  But  to-night  she 
seemed  moved  beyond  her  content;  he  spoke  of 
something  that  had  been  on  him  long : 

"Demetra,  I've  wondered  at  times  if  everything 
went  against  me — if  I  was  discredited  at  the  uni- 
versity because  of  the  complaints  against  my  rad- 
icalism— if  it  would  hurt  you?" 

"Hurt  me  ?"  She  stirred,  looked  at  him  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Dear,  there  are  bigger  things  than  a  class-room. 
Sometimes  I  want  to  swing  from  it,  get  in  the  fight- 
ing line  of  the  socialistic  movement — to  turn  my 
whole  life  to  that  miserable  cotton  mill  town  and  its 
problems.  There's  so  much  for  a  man  to  fight  for !" 

"That's  like  you,  Corbett,"  she  smiled,  "always 
giving  something.  Last  year  half  your  salary  went 
to  that  social  settlement  in  the  mill  shanties.  That's 
why  I  didn't  get  the  furs  you  promised  me !" 

He  laughed  with  her  playfulness — his  heedless- 
ness  was  a  seasonal  joke.  "Well,"  she  went  on,  "I 
remember  the  mills  were  unpleasant  enough.  And 
how  the  children  howled  at  our  machine  when  the 
judge  and  I  went  through  mill-town  on  that  trip 
there.  And  the  girls — you  should  have  seen  their 


68  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

clothes — they  were  positively  picturesque.  One  little 
thing  had  a  meal  sack  on  with  holes  cut  for  her 
arms.  She  didn't  look  more  than  six,  but  I  suppose 
they  do  get  dwarfed." 

"Yes.    In  a  strike  they  actually  starve." 

Her  fingers  idly  played  with  the  silken  cord  of  the 
pillow  on  which  she  leaned :  "It's  bad — but  if  Jus- 
tice Rand  stands  by  you,  they  can't  hurt  you,  Cor- 
bett.  He  helped  found  the  university." 

"Yes,  with  money  twisted  out  of  the  children's 
lives.  Eight  hundred  babies,  almost,  who  crawl  out 
of  the  stinking  shanties,  night  and  day  shifts,  to  give 
themselves  to  what  ?  To  what  we  call  civilization — 
to  build  some  other  lives  into  sweetness,  into  light." 
She  had  shivered — she  drew  up  the  dominant  figure 
that  had  made  men  turn  to  look  at  her  on  the  street. 
He  saw  her  face,  touched  as  he  had  never  known 
it :  "Men  call  me  an  agitator,"  he  went  on  gently, 
"but  there's  got  to  be  a  fighting  line  somewhere — the 
fighting  men  ahead  of  the  constructing  army. 
Say  what  you  please,  it's  war,  class  war,  and  there's 
no  compromise — nothing  except  a  complete  read- 
justment of  human  relations — the  substitution  of 
service  and  not  profit  as  the  end  of  living  and 
working.  Yes,  there's  got  to  be  a  fighting  line  ahead 
somewhere !" 

"They  say  some  bitter  things  of  you,"  she  an- 
swered— "they  call  you  dangerous — a  revolutionist." 

He  laughed:  "So  were  Garrison — Luther — 
Christ — very  dangerous !  I  know  all  the  threats  and 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  69 

intrigues  brought  to  oust  me.  It's  Judge  Rand 
who's  made  my  career  possible — not  only  at  the  uni- 
versity, but  in  the  bigger  work — Washington  and 
South.  He's  conservative^  powerful,  even  yet,  when 
he's  almost  out  of  harness." 

"And  yet,"  she  went  on,  "he,  the  justice,  owns  the 
mills!" 

The  dreamer  sighed :  "I  know.  That's  the  curious 
thing  in  human  nature.  It's  the  business  idea — the 
American  idea.  First,  profit  by  any  means — any- 
how— it's  your  business  alone.  Get  your  money, 
anyhow,  at  any  cost,  then  build  your  hospitals, 
schools,  libraries — be  honest,  kindly,  broad-souled — 
but  first  take  your  profit.  And  the  cotton  mills  ? — 
what  chance  have  eight  hundred  children  against  the 
big  companies?  What  earthly  chance  have  they  if 
there  are  not  men  fighting  for  them?" 

The  foreign  wife  had  stirred :  "The  men — "  she 
muttered — "the  strong  men  for  the  children.  O, 
that's  the  way  the  barbarians  would  have  fought — 
the  strong  men  for  the  little  children !" 

He  looked  in  wonder  at  her — she  had  risen  to 
pace  the  floor. 

"Corbett,  I  remember  once,  I  saw  a  little  one  not 
eight  years  old  with  the  tired,  hopeless  face  of  a 
woman  of  fifty.  It  was  one  of  the  immigrants — a 
Polish  baby — one  of  my  own  race — the  beaten  peo- 
ple." She  came  near  him,  she  leaned  dominant,  a 
splendid  barbarian  holding  within  her  hates,  loves — 
a  mother  animal  wild  with  the  wrongs  of  the 


70  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

hunted.  "Corbett,  for  a  moment  I  hated  you — Am- 
erica— rich,  proud,  free !  I  was  a  peasant  girl  back 
a  thousand  years  with  the  whip  of  some  lord  across 
my  shoulders !" 

He  started  up,  seizing  her  hand,  his  eyes  afire  with 
fighting:  "Demetra!  This  is  like  the  woman  I 
dreamed  of!  I  used  to  think  of  you — a  mother — a 
leader — you,  a  foreign  woman  for  whom  America 
has  done  so  much — finding  a  way  for  the  beaten 
people  pouring  in — I  dreamed  of  you  in  some  great 
part.  The  great,  new,  un  fear  ing  women!  I  believe 
in  them  so.  I  want  them  aroused,  enfranchised— 
what  a  splendid  race  they  could  bring!" 

"Ah,  well!"  She  smiled  now,  quite  recovered,  it 
appeared:  "I  want  you  to  go  on — I  want  to  be 
proud — proud !" 

He  had  her  hand  in  his  happiness:  "Dear  girl, 
you  hearten  a  man — you  can  send  him  out  big  and 
brave.  And  sometimes  I  thought  you  didn't  care- 
that  I  was  only  a  dreamer."  His  old  wistfulness 
crept  back :  "And  suppose  I  had  to  leave  the  uni- 
versity? If  I  get  Rand's  endowment  for  the  mill 
school  we  might  have  to  go  live  there." 

"Go?  Live  at  Rand's  mills?"  He  felt  her  draw- 
ing slowly  from  him:  "You  mean  at  your  social 
settlement?" 

He  did  not  understand.  "There'd  be  big  work. 
We'd  need  women — earnest,  helpful  women.  Dear, 
you'd  be  so  much — you,  a  Polish  woman,  among 
your  own  people,  the  eager,  ignorant  emigrants.  Do 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  71 

you  know  you're  such  a  compound? — you  with  an 
ancestry  of  the  common  lot,  have  such  a  sort  of 
luxuriousness  ?"  He  looked  on  her  animal  beauty, 
autumnal,  golden — he  laughed  with  his  man's  joy  of 
it.  "Your  life  so  strange  abroad,  singing,  learn- 
ing, provided  for  when  a  child  by  some  man,  you 
never  knew  exactly  for  what.  Then  Washington — 
meeting  so  many  men  in  all  sorts  of  curious  experi- 
ences. It  seems  as  if  -you  should  know  all,  all  that 
life  could  mean  for  a  woman — the  lowest  to  the 
highest — you've  really  had  a  wonderful  life.  You've 
sprung  like  a  great  chrysanthemum  from  the  soil. 
That  was  my  hope  in  you.  It  showed  what  might  be 
done — what  you,  yourself,  might  help  along — the 
rising  of  the  race,  the  making  of  its  mothers." 

Her  smile  was  a  reverie  so  baffling  that  he  paused. 

"A  little  Polish  girl?"  she  mused— "so  long  ago 
that  I've  almost  forgotten  even  the  tongue.  And 
the  man  who  aided  me — a  child?" 

He  stirred — he  had  been  patient  long:  "Dear, 
have  I  ever  asked  of  you  more  than  you  wished  to 
tell,  me?" 

"Corbett,  did  I  ever  deceive  you  ?  I  told  you  when 
you  married  me  I  was  tired,  tired.  I  hoped  for 
peace,  rest,  after  the  fight  of  it  all.  Perhaps  I've 
disappointed  you,  you  and  your  dear  little  country 
mother,  your  college  circles.  .  .  .  The  women 
have  never  quite  received  me,  Corbett." 

"Ah,  well,  what's  the  matter  with  these  women?" 

She  laughed  with  some  luxurious  disdain.    "I 


72  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

am  Demetra.  I  smile,  perhaps,  at  their  inconsequen- 
tial readings  and  tabby  teas.  They're  rather  dreary 
to  me.  I've  been  used  to  men — I  seem  to  get 
things  done  with  them.  And  I  live  my  own  life 
here."  She  moved  with  a  sinuous  accenting  of  the 
yellow  light  enrobing  her,  and  took  his  hands: 
"Please,  please,  Corbett,  don't  be  hurt.  I'm  trying  to 
adjust  myself — to  be  the  wife.  After  a  woman's 
thirty,  it  takes  adjustment." 

H^r  ease  had  come  again,  the  thing  that  always 
brought  his  wistful  turning:  "Dear  heart,  I  know. 
Our  lives  have  been  different,  haven't  they?  Mine 
such  a  battle  always,  working  my  way  through  col- 
lege by  doing  janitor  work — anything — until  I  won 
the  Frost  scholarship.  And  then  on,  always  the  big 
fight — ahead  of  me  now,  ever  the  big  fight !" 

"I've  honored  every  battle,"  she  replied  slowly, 
and  as  always,  when  she  gave  him  opening,  all  the 
inner  pathos  of  the  man  flashed  out.  He  tried  to 
put  an  arm  about  her  as  she  bent  to  him : 

"If  you  could  know,"  he  muttered.  "Always  it's 
as  if  I  stood  before  a  temple  in  you  and  could  not 
enter,  a  shrine  in  you  that  none  had  found — your 
soul!" 

She  checked  a  little  laugh :  "How  you've  misread 
me,  Corbett!  All  the  great  beautiful  dreams  you 
have  of  me !  And  I'm  none  of  them.  Only  a  woman 
who  was  tired — a  woman  who'd  like  to  imagine  she 
was  little  and  cared  for,  instead  of  being  big  and 
disenchantingly  self-reliant.  And  I  don't  want  to  do 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  73 

big  things,  or  lead  movements — merely  to  slip  away 
and  rest/' 

"No — no — "  he  murmured,  shielding  his  illusion, 
"Ah,  well,  dear,  we're  all  hammering  away.  It's 
the  real  problem — to  find  ourselves,  to  be  our  best 
and  give  our  best,  even  if  only  a  little!" 

For  a  time  he  was  still  and  then  laughed  again, 
shortly,  as  a  man  will,  coming  from  a  musing :  "And 
I  asked  you  to  go  South — to  mill-town — to  help 
teach  a  lot  of  dirty  emigrant  girls  to  sew,  bake,  read, 
write,  or  at  least  be  clean.  To  be  Americans — 
mothers  for  the  new  America !  It  seems  I  thought 
you  had  a  power  that  could  send  a  man  on  to  any 
greatness." 

"You  dreamer,  you!"  she  smiled.  And  they 
were  still,  he  staring  at  the  little  fire,  and  she  from 
the  window,  when  the  maid  entered. 

"Miss  Hergov's  in  the  study,"  she  announced. 

At  once  he  started  up,  greeting  the  girl  with 
protests,  helping  her  with  her  wet  veil.  The  wife 
looked  amusedly  on.  Corbett  was  at  his  boy's  pranks 
and  slang  as  he  could  turn  from  one  mood  to  an- 
other :  "Louise,  you  shouldn't  have  come — a  night 
like  this.  Let  the  correspondence  go  hang!  Your 
loyalty  is  simply  a  disaster — and  your  feet  are  wet,  I 
know!" 

Miss  Hergov  spread  her  slim  hands  to  the  fire 
while  Ennisley  brought  a  chair.  The  wife  studied 
them  with  her  usual  tolerant  and  amused  detach- 
ment, her  sureness  over  him,  in  it  the  greed  which 


74  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

women  love  to  show  another.  She  saw  his  eyes 
watching  with  frank,  fond  interest  the  rain  drip 
from  the  trim  gaiters  under  Miss  Hergov's  blue 
skirt.  "You're  another  one  of  these  dynamos  in  the 
flesh,"  she  murmured.  Ennisley  laughed ;  it  seemed 
that  his  cheery  simplicity  had  come  back  with  his 
secretary's  entrance — his  dreams  and  work  were  viv- 
ified and  real. 

"Louise  is  a  whole  power  plant!"  he  retorted. 
"Roderman  of  the  commission  asked  me  the  other 
day  how  I  got  so  much  done — four  lectures  a  week 
at  the  university,  grinding  away  on  my  reports,  and 
looking  after  the  work  at  Rand's  mills,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  bothering  the  legislatures  in  season  and  out, 
and  running  off  a  magazine  article  now  and  then. 
Well,  it's  Louise — all  Louise.  I'm  afraid  some  fel- 
low will  offer  her  more  than  I  can  afford  to  pay  her 
one  of  these  days — or  marry  her !" 

The  pale  Jew  girl  smiled  deprecatingly.  Mrs. 
Ennisley's  lips  parted;  she  was  used  to  these  ex- 
travagances. "I  suppose  you  two  will  want  to 
work,"  she  said.  "And,  Louise,  you  can't  go  home 
again.  There  are  five  unused  bedrooms  in  this  barn 
of  a  house." 

"Of  course  she'll  stay!"  announced  Ennisley 
buoyantly.  "Why,  just  to  think  of  her  coming!" 

Louise  tried  to  protest,  but  the  wife  went  to  see  to 
the  heating  of  a  room,  and  the  other  turned  back  to 
the  genial  host. 

"Anything  happened?"  he  began,  in  the  frank  un- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  75 

derstanding  of  their  labors.  "I've  let  everything  go 
except  the  strike  at  Rand's  mills.  Been  trying  to  get 
an  eight-hour  agreement.  I  offered  to  let  up  on  the 
fight  in  the  legislature  if  the  operators  would  meet  us 
there.  But  the  matter's  ugly,  Louise." 

"There's  danger  of  violence?" 

"I'm  afraid  of  it.  Some  wild-eyed  agitators  have 
been  among  the  yard  men.  They've  won  away  some 
of  the  boys  whom  we'd  been  helping  at  the  mill  set- 
tlement. It  makes  me  nervous  at  times."  , 

"The  money  you  hope  from  Judge  Rand  for  your 
school  down  there?"  she  queried.  "Violence  would 
make  him  bitter — yes." 

He  nodded  intimately  at  her  quick  grasp  of  the 
heart  of  the  problem.  "And  at  the  university — it 
would  hurt  me.  And  the  cause,  too.  They're  begin- 
ning to  identify  me  with  the  political  propaganda  of 
socialism,  I  see  by  the  newspapers,"  he  laughed 
blithely.  It  was  good  to  be  with  her  again,  to  have 
speech  and  understanding  untrammeled  and  confi- 
dentially colloquial  of  the  big  things  of  his  life. 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "Altmayer  was  in  to  see 
you,  and  some  of  the  county  candidates  were  with 
him.  They  spoke  so  feelingly  of  you — they  do 
openly  claim  you.  And  the  president  of  the  garment 
workers,  some  young  chap,  showed  me  the  circular 
in  which  the  National  Manufacturers'  Association 
attack  you  and  claim  your  reports  are  unfair  on  child 
labor." 

Ennisley  .laughed  again,  with  the  light  of  battle 


76  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

in  his  eye.  He  took  the  girl's  hands  in  comforting- 
comradeship.  "Louise,  anyway,  you  understand— 
you  always  understand.  And  sometimes  it  seems 
that  you're  the  only  one." 

She  watched  him  long ;  always  it  had  been  so.  In 
the  brief  years  of  his  early  marriage — a  laughing, 
blue-eyed  young  father,  and  later  in  his  larger  hor- 
izon, as  he  grew  mentally  and  learned  the  fighting 
ways  of  the  world — always,  it  seemed,  she  had  been 
with  him,  the  comrade,  the  inner  agent.  To  her  he 
had  carried  his  sore  hurts,  and  she  had  understood. 

At  times  he  found  himself,  with  his  ever-idealiz- 
ing imagination,  grasping  at  a  formless  faith  that 
he  owed  much  to  her — that  her  sanity,  intuition,  her 
perspicacity  in  delicate  issues  to  which  he  would 
have  flung  himself  headlong,  and  repented — had 
been  a  clear  light  guiding  his  path. 

They  went  to  his  little  study,  choked  with  familiar 
papers,  books  and  heapings.  His  pipe,  never  smoked 
in  Demetra's  rooms,  was  on  the  torn  and  ink-stained 
blotter  of  the  desk  near  the  little  silver  frame  en- 
circling the  picture  of  his  dead  wife  with  the  lame 
child  in  her  arms.  By  his  chair  was  drawn  up 
Louise's  own,  before  it  her  type-writer.  It  was 
a  common  shrine;  from  it  went  his  faiths,  his 
dreams.  To  it  and  to  her  he  came  back  from  his 
defeats  or  with  the  joy  of  achievement. 

The  girl  at  the  machine  wheeled  her  little  chair  to 
look  at  him  as  he  reached  for  the  first  of  the  letters 
she  had  brought.  She  was  slender,  her  face  had  a 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  77 

pallor  which  one  forgot  in  the  singularly  direct  and 
fixing  beauty  of  her  round  blue  eyes  beneath  straight 
black  lashes.  Her  hair,  heavy,  coarse,  purpled,  was 
piled  about  her  ears,  completing  her  vivid  contrasts, 
her  white  face,  the  blue  eyes,  the  hair  with  its  firm 
contour — behind  these  was  a  personality,  compact, 
resolute.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  English 
woman  and  a  Nihilist  long  rotted  beyond  Baikal; 
apostate,  denationalized,  a  girl  of  mean  streets  but 
a  hereditament  of  thought,  she  had  come  to  be, 
through  her  dreary  teaching  days  and  as  Doctor 
Ennisley's  secretary,  a  student  of  futile  philosophies, 
she  burned  with  inner  primal  vengeances  in  her 
secret  idealizing  of  self. 

She  had  no  relations,  nothing.  And  cloaking  her 
loneliness,  her  sex-hunger,  her  splendid  dreams  with 
steadfast  work,  she  lived  on  with  but  one  outlook 
for  her  life  and  that  was  the  career  of  the  man  by 
her  side.  She  wondered  if,  ever  to  him,  she  was  but 
the  shy,  practical  secretary ;  she  wondered  if  he  knew 
that  she  was  passionate  with  the  thought  of  heroic 
immolations,  that  at  times  the  blood  surged  to  her 
temples  at  the  world  wrongs  of  the  proletaire  from 
which  she  drew  breed — that  she  played  charming 
enactments  for  her  soul.  At  one  time  she  visualized 
her  figure  stepping  before  a  black  velvet  curtain 
facing  some  vast  auditorium,  from  her  throat  a 
song,  amazing,  unwritten,  voicing  the  sadness  of 
her  race,  of  all  the  patient  and  the  failed,  a  rapture 
from  her  wished-for  glorification  of  life;  and  then 


78  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

again  she  had  a  sweeter  drama — she  was  to  be  a 
mother  to  bring  a  man-child  to  the  world,  the  child 
of  a  strong  man,  with  the  prestige  of  deed.  At 
times,  by  Corbett's  side,  her  hands  trembled,  she 
felt  herself  one  of  his  new  race-mothers,  the  enfran- 
chised and  mighty  women;  and  alone  in  the  prim, 
hateful  walls  of  her  tiny  flat,  she  found  herself  in 
tears  before  the  pathos  of  all  that  life  withheld — 
she  loved  him. 

But  she  was,  after  all,  merely  Louise  Hergov, 
secretary-stenographer  to  a  busy  man — a  pale  girl, 
unpretty  save  for  her  blue  eyes,  and  with  a  shy  con- 
sciousness of  self  that  made  her  "practical."  And 
before  Demetra,  the  wife,  she  stood  writhing,  at 
times,  with  the  smart  of  the  other's  easy  dominance, 
tolerant,  complacent,  ungiving — she,  who  was  afire 
with  the  need  of  expression,  of  freedom,  of  love, 
could  only  watch  the  man's  soul  starve  for  what  she 
must  deny,  and  starve  herself. 

Corbett,  at  times,  felt  the  constraint  his  wife's 
presence  put  on  Louise.  From  his  chair  now  he 
looked  from  one  woman  to  the  other,  the  wife, 
idling,  sensuous,  autumn  full ;  the  girl,  pale  April. 

Louise  broke  on  his  serious  intent  with  the  inti- 
macy in  which  they  labored.  "I  suppose  you  know 
Judge  Rand's  son  is  back?" 

Ennisley  started.  "Herf ord  Rand  ?  Mrs.  Ennis- 
ley  did  not  mention  it?" 

"He  was  at  the  house  yesterday.  He  is  staying 
at  John  Bride's.  I  saw  him  there." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  79 

The  professor  sat  forward;  his  frown  stilled  her, 
then  she  went  on:  "I  wondered  if  it  would  make 
any  difference — his  being  here — with  your  plans — 
the  endowment  for  the  rnill  school  and  everything 
you're  trying  to  get  through  his  father  ?" 

'Til  tell  you  something."  Ennisley  spoke  briefly 
in  his  business  tone.  "The  judge's  will  still  leaves 
him  the  mills — everything.  I  had  hoped  to  change 
it,  to  turn  the  property  over  to  the  university  and 
to  the  technical  schools  to  be  started  at  the  mills — 
in  fact,  to  put  under  way  the  biggest  experiment  in 
industrial  sociology  ever  attempted.  I'll  tell  you  the 
big  scheme  some  day.  Louise,  it's  why  this  strike 
has  upset  me  so — a  single  act  of  violence  now  would 
drive  Judge  Rand  back  from  all  I've  led  him  to! 
I  wanted  him  to  leave  his  fortune  for  the  greater 
and  common  good." 

"And  Rand,  the  son — he'd  get  nothing?" 

"Why  should  he?  What's  one  man's  life  to  the 
lives  of  his  thousand  brothers?  And  twenty  million 
dollars  to  Herford  Rand,  whose  very  memory 
haunts  this  house!  I've  never  seen  him,  but  he's 
haunted  me — I've  dreamed  what  manner  of  man  he 
was — the  master  of  the  mills !" 


CHAPTER  IV 

JOHN  BRIDE'S  block,  the  "grand  property 
housin'  forty  families,"  was  a  hive  of  poor  folk 
but  not  savage  urban  misery ;  artisans,  meager  clerk- 
lings,  drivers,  watchmen,  teamsters  and  the  like, 
people  of  family  and  living  wage  for  the  most  part, 
and  from  them  Old  John  got  an  indifferent  rental 
which  he  yearly  turned  back  for  improvements. 
John  got  his  tithe  from  them,  it  appeared,  in  his 
cheery  pertinancy  of  interest  in  their  lives  and  for- 
tunes. To  them,  as  to  the  board  of  directors  of  the 
road  and  the  coterie  of  pioneers  about  the  town,  he 
was  Brother  John,  eccentric,  but  loved  the  more. 
The  poor  folk  pointed  him  out  as  the  "millionaire 
flagman,"  and  told  with  gusto  of  his  day's  work 
there.  But  John's  fortune  was  not  anywhere  near 
this — the  panic  of  '93  had  done  for  his  larger  activ- 
ities. He  was,  in  fact,  a  figure  forgotten  in  the  bald 
huge  uprise  of  the  city's  glut  of  wealth,  he  belonged 
to  a  day  dim  in  its  annals,  the  era  before  the  fire. 

The  old  Scot  seemed  well  content  to  stand  in  the 
shelter  of  his  wall  and  let  the  hurricane  blow  by- 
one  could  enrich  and  intensify  one's  human  relations 
if  one  could  no  longer  enlarge  them.  The  time  was 

80 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  81 

gone  when  Old  Scotch  John  knew  each  station, 
siding,  bridge  and  feeder,  but  still  he  held  the  road 
with  a  father's  pride.  It  was  more  than  an  eccentric 
whim  of  human  love  that  led  him  to  be  watchman 
for  the  thousand  youngsters  passing  a  dangerous 
morning  way  across  the  tracks  to  the  big  new  school. 
There,  by  the  rails,  he  could  watch  and  dream  of  the 
pathway  of  empire  to  the  wide  lands.  He  had  seen 
the  mighty  traverse,  he  felt  his  glory  of  service. 
And  yardmen,  division  masters,  engineers — all  knew 
him,  smiled  with  him. 

John  Bride,  with  all  his  idiosyncrasies,  had  a 
canny  eye.  His  fine  flats  in  a  quarter  where  there 
were  poor  men,  but  men  of  wage,  were  always  full 
ancj  rentals  paid  to  this  hale  and  merry  landlord. 

"Stephen,  man,"  he  told  his  cousin  at  the  Thurs- 
day dinner  at  Rand's  house,  "what'd  ye  have  more  ? 
The  land  pays,  the  house  pays,  and  I  have  all  I 
wish  and  naught  to  leave  it  to — that's  the  whole 
philosophy.  We  all  live,  man,  and  well." 

The  justice  bared  his  yellow  teeth  over  his  cigar. 
"I  remember  when  you  came  from  Edinboro  you 
were  no  such  fool,  John.  No,  nor  for  forty  years 
after.  When  you  put  through  the  La  Crosse  divi- 
sion and  built  the  bridge  you  were  no  such  fool  as  to 
dream  of  standing  in  your  old  age  at  a  crossing  to 
flag  the  trains.  There's  rheumatism  in  the  air,  these 
days,  and  pneumonia." 

Brother  John  laughed :  "Whose  leg's  the  stiffest  ? 
And  whose  lung's  stoutest — yours  or  mine?  Stephie, 


82  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

I  tak  my  toll  o'  life.  John  Bride's  services  are  no 
so  cheap !" 

The  judge's  mask-like  face  fixed  to  a  trace  of 
smiling.  "You're  as  perverse  in  this  matter  as  this 
college  professor  here  is  with  his  meddling  with  my 
mills.  Shorter  hours,  more  ventilation,  inspection 
of  the  shanties  by  the  state — God  knows,  since  I 
let  him  go  South  with  his  schemes  the  mills  have  not 
paid  four  per  cent.  The  superintendent  says  the 
operators  openly  charge  the  strike  to  him,  and  are 
hounding  me  for  indulging  his  experiments." 

"Let  him  be.  Man,  do  ye  need  the  money?  If 
there's  children  in  the  mills  standing  eleven  hours  a 
day,  why  take  'em  out.  If  there's  wind  whistlin' 
through  the  cracks  of  ye'r  mill-town  shanties  of 
nights,  why,  stop  the  cracks.  Man,  it's  simple." 

The  justice  grunted,  closing  one  eye  against 
Brother  John's  smoke.  He  had  had  a  deal  of  patience 
with  all  this  but  there  was  no  law  for  its  interpreta- 
tion. 

"John,  you're  full,  too,  of  this  modern  day  splut- 
ter. What  are  we  coming  to — the  laws,  society,  or 
America — if  men  listen  to  your  subversion  ?  There's 
overmuch  of  this  about.  We  must  go  back  to  the 
older  republic  and  the  standards  when  a.  man  was  a 
man  on  his  own  bottom  and  free  to  work  with  his 
own  hands  and  brain.  My  line's  fought  in  every 
war  since  Braddock,  but  it  seems  the  day's  come 
when  America  is  not  for  Americans — nor  for  such 
as  you  whom  the  land's  enriched  in  your  half  cen- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  83 

tury  this  side  the  water.  It's  that  later  breed  of 
Europe  that's  subverting  us  and  our  old  basic  idea 
that  men  came  to  what  they  were  worth." 

"Their  worth  is  more  than  profit.  I  say  the  land 
means  more  than  divideends.  Stephen,  it's  made  you 
— and  it's  made  me — who  but  America  with  its  push- 
in'  and  crowdin'  in  of  the  new  folk?  What  enriched 
ye  but  that?  Ye  sold  them  cotton  and  hauled  'em 
on  ye'r  roads.  We  owe  more  to  the  land  than  to 
sit  on  it  and  make  a  profit  of  it.  There'll  come  a 
generation  to  see  it,  Stephie — service  and  not  profit, 
for  the  men  who  build  and  lead.  This  land's  the 
highway  for  all  the  peoples  to  travel.  I  stand  and 
see  the  red  lights  o'  the  trains  vanish  off  in  the  murk, 
and  I  think  o'  what  they're  buildin'  out  there — 
Huns  and  Italians,  Poles  and  Jews — pressin'  on  to 
what  grand  journey's  end!  Eh,  tell  me — God's 
hand  is  on  it — it's  for  that  I  stand  by  the  crossin' 
wi'  the  flag,  to  go  in  service  when  I'm  called." 

The  judge's  grim  smile  tightened  over  his  thin 
lips.  "You  are  a  good  deal  of  a  fool,  Brother  John. 
I  once  heard  you  spouting  so  to  a  board  meeting  of 
the  Lake  Northern." 

"There's  one  thing  that's  never  talked  of  at  direc- 
tors' meetin's  that  I  yet  heard,  and  that's  whether  or 
no  there's  right  in  a  thing.  I  am  fair  tired  of  the 
profit  idea  altogether." 

"John,  you  talk  like  the  introduction  of  the  pro- 
fessor's last  book.  I  still  call  you  a  fool."  The  older 
man  rubbed  his  smooth  chin.  "But  I  can't  talk. 


84  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

I've  let  the  man  go  preach  rank  revolution  to  his 
pimply- faced  young  teachers  at  the  university  and 
send  them  out  over  the  land — I,  mind,  who  founded 
it.  I  let  him  go  South  and  denounce  my  properties 
and  wheedle  me  for  a  hundred  thousand  for  his  ex- 
periments. It's  strange — I've  been  a  hard  man, 
John  Bride." 

John  looked  at  him;  a  man  of  stubborn  strength 
and  of  odd,  hidden,  human  weaknesses.  The  Scot 
let  his  eyes  wander  about  the  somber  dining-room, 
its  blackened  and  austere  furniture,  its  ancient  plate 
and  lighting;  the  brooding  spirit  of  the  master  was 
on  it  all. 

"A  hard  man,  Stephen,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"Ye've  eaten  in  on  ye'rself.  Ye've  closed  heart  to 
human  kindliness — what's  all  the  clack  o'  the  law 
beside  it?  Law  and  money — they  canna  loosen  a 
man's  soul.  I'm  minded,  when  I  see  ye,  of  Staley, 
the  union  engineer  who's  one  of  my  tenants — him 
with  his  stump  of  an  arm,  who's  just  out  of  jail 
because  he  sneered  when  the  court  decided  against 
him  in  his  suit  for  damages  against  the  road — ye  and 
he  are  at  the  far  eends  of  the  brotherhood." 

"And  I  will  safely  maintain,"  retorted  the  justice, 
"that  the  man  sits  in  your  house,  rent-free  because 
of  it." 

"He  has  bairns — a  wife — " 

"I  thought  so."  The  justice  leaned  closer  over  the 
cloth.  "John,  you  fool — you  do  us  honor.  But  have 
I  been  unjust  ?" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  85 

"Have  ye  been  more  than  just?  This  week  ye'r 
own  boy  came  to  me — he  had  been  sent  from  this 
door,  I  take  it." 

The  father  settled  back.  He  looked  across  his 
glasses  at  the  other,  his  face  again  the  unstirred 
mask,  the  eyes  fixing  coldly. 

"We'd  best  not  talk  of  him.  John,  I  would  not 
quarrel  with  you." 

"A  rough,  adventuring  de'il,"  John  Bride  mut- 
tered, "but  his  voice  has  a  trick  at  times.  I'm 
minded  o'  his  mother." 

The  two  old  men's  eyes  were  raised  across  the 
silver  and  the  candlesticks  to  the  portrait  of  a 
woman,  dim,  all  but  indistinguishable,  at  the 
room's  end.  For  thirty-eight  years  Stephen  Rand 
had  dined  in  silence  here,  but  each  time,  before  the 
beginning  of  his  lonely  meal,  his  eyes  had  wandered 
once  to  his  dead  wife's  picture.  They  had  been 
years  which  had  given  bite  to  his  common  speech 
with  men,  and  made  the  world  stand  from  him. 

"Ah,  man,"  John  Bride  said  softly.     "It's  long!" 

The  father's  unmoved  speech  came  back.  "It'll 
be  longer  before  I  welcome  him.  There  was  his 
mother  dying — the  word  she  laid  upon  me  that  I 
train  him  for  the  ministry.  I  did,  against  blood  and 
flesh  and  desire,  I  did,  and  it  made  me  lose  my  own 
faith  in  God  at  the  end.  What  do  you  recall,  John 
Bride,  of  him — his  mother's  fortune,  a  church,  as 
fair  a  start  as  anything  could  make — and  you  know 
the  end.  A  girl  he  kept  in  London — a  drab  of  his 


86  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

student  days,  I  take  it — and  then,  in  five  years  to 
the  devil,  a  quarter  million  flung  to  thieves  and  beg- 
gars, and  he  disappears,  to  come  back  a  tramp  at 
best/' 

Brother  John  was  still.  He  looked  across  at  the 
picture  of  his  cousin's  wife.  He  wondered  at  this 
heritage  of  hate  left  by  this  gentle  soul  to  son  and 
father.  He  sighed ;  he  had  watched  Stephen  harden 
year  by  year  over  his  memories ;  cut  each  human  tie, 
— to  come  to  stand  in  that  terrible  twilight  of  the 
aged,  the  embittered  and  the  alone. 

"A  tramp  then.  Many's  the  father's  hand  reached 
out  to  such."  Brother  John  sighed  as  he  rose.  "The 
prodigal  found  welcome,  do  ye  mind?" 

Stephen  laughed  with  sudden  real  humor.  "I  was 
waiting  for  the  Scotch  in  you  to  bring  Scripture! 
When  you  can  train  Rand  to  parrot  every  text  in 
them  he  can  come  eat  at  my  table.  'Til  then  he  can 
be  damned." 

Brother  John  laughed  cheerily.  "I'll  find  text 
for  ye  both.  Let  be — let  be — come,  I  can  beat  ye 
at  the  billiards !" 

"John  Bride,"  the  justice  retorted,  "I  have 
guessed  something.  The  fellow  is  with  you?  You 
took  him  in?" 

"There's  blood  o'  mine  in  him — he's  Jennie's  son." 

They  stood  under  the  play  of  the  light  through 
the  chandeliers,  two  old  men,  one  priestly  shaven, 
one  smoothing  his  white  underbeard.  "I  remember, 
Stephie,  when  I  carried  him  through  these  halls — 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  87 

a  bonny  lad  that  could  no  more  than  toddle.  And 
his  little  mother  skipped  before  us.  And  there  was 
Donald — the  auld  house  was  over-cheery  then — 
when  I  ate  my  first  Thursday  dinner  wi'  ye  in  this 
darksome  room." 

The  justice  did  not  answer;  John  Bride  came 
nearer.  "A  bit  o'  his  mother's  eyes  and  laugh  in  him 
— the  big  man  now.  He's  stayin'  wi'  me,  Stephen, 
no  so  far  away.*'  John  went  slowly  on :  "Did  ye 
turn  him  off  again  with  no  chance  for  word  ?" 

"I  did  not  turn  him  off.  He  can  come  sleep  here 
and  eat  of  my  providing — but  not  near  me  or  with 
me.  If  he  wants  word  with  me  let  him  come  civilly 
• — let  him  show  himself  a  man  at  last  and  not  a  clown 
and  waster." 

"I'll  thank  ye  for  this.  I'll  have  him  come  at  the 
last — and  civil.  I  think  Jennie'd  meet  me  easier — 
there's  service  in  it." 

"John  Bride,"  the  judge  retorted  dryly,  "be  still 
of  this.  Come  to  the  billiards." 


CHAPTER  V 

RAND  came  to  his  father's  house  the  next  day 
unbidden  and  alone.  He  found  his  way  to  the 
little  breakfast-room  of  the  Ennisleys'  apartments, 
bright  with  the  April  sun  on  the  new  verdure  with- 
out, where  the  mistress  of  the  home  discovered  him, 
imperturbable,  and  with  peremptory  demands  upon 
the  ill-humor  of  the  old  serving-maid,  who  was 
stupefied  at  this  intrusion.  She,  indeed,  was  hasten- 
ing to  protest  to  Mrs.  Ennisley  when  the  latter 
entered. 

The  wife  paused  at  the  door,  watching  silently, 
her  arms  filled  with  the  white  spring  bloom  of  daisies 
from  the  tumble-down  old  conservatory  in  the  rear 
of  the  yard,  which  she  had  intended  for  the  break- 
fast table.  The  room  was  one  set  apart  for  their 
exclusive  use  as  guests  of  the  recluse  owner.  After 
a  while,  dwelling  on  Rand's  unbidden  presence,  she 
remarked : 

"I  have  an  impression  that  you're  always  eating. 
I  hope  you  are  well?" 

"Admirably.  The  woman's  coffee  is  exceptional 
— much  better  than  her  temper." 

"She  is  a  patient  soul." 
88 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  89 

"So  is  a  dog.  I  remember  the  old  dame  twenty 
years  ago — she  had  the  same  virtue.  Eh,  what's  it 
ever  done  for  her?  Patience — it  shrunk  and  with- 
ered on  her  bones,  it  ate  out  her  heart — this  patience. 
It's  a  dog's  servile  trick." 

The  old  maid  had  left  the  room.  Rand  looked 
up  to  the  wife,  to  find  her  frank  study  on  him.  Her 
luxurious  morning  ease  pricked  him:  his  life  had 
been  without  the  discipline  of  tradition,  he  had  the 
appeal  of  a  child's  license  to  women  in  his  younger 
days.  They  were  for  ever  seeking  the  final  chivalry 
in  him,  as  women  will  in  those  who  deny  their  chal- 
lenge. 

"Well,"  the  wife  went  on  composedly,  "it's  the 
woman  who  pays  with  patience  even  if  it  means  her 
bones  and  soul.  Your  father  must  have  had  a  faculty 
for  holding  his  people — the  servants  are  gray  in  his 
service." 

"Everything  here  is  rotted  with  age.  I  remember 
as  a  boy  they  were  old  then.  I  had  the  same  impres- 
sion the  other  day  when  the  butler  hesitated  about 
letting  me  in.  I  remembered  the  same  fishy  eye  on 
me — the  same  suspicion — they  all  hate  me.  I  be- 
lieve they  have  an  eye  on  a  share  in  my  birthright." 

"I  supposed  you'd  sold  it  long  ago — for  a  mess  of 
cocktails." 

He  laughed  with  a  reckless  pleasure  as  she  ar- 
ranged the  flowers,  a  great  gold  and  white  bloom  in 
the  sunlight  on  the  table.  Into  the  clear  serenity  of 
the  home  had  come  a  breath  of  careless  ways. 


90  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Aren't  they  dear?"  she  said,  and  held  the  vase 
for  his  inspection.  The  hard  lines  of  his  face  re- 
laxed, his  eyes  for  a  moment  less  somber ;  he  looked 
about  the  home  spot — you  would  have  said  there  was 
in  him  a  wistfulness.  A  moment,  and  his  old  flippant 
looseness  came  back;  but  he  watched  her  fingers 
among  the  soil-sweet  stems  and  leaves. 

"Somehow,  you  have  made  this  end  of  the  house 
less  a  tomb/'  His  mood  sharpened:  "You've 
changed  amazingly.  I  see  it  now — older.  There's 
a  line  between  your  eyes.  This  Ennisley — how  did 
you  come  to  marry  him  ?  You  were  growing  older  ? 
That  is  a  disaster  to  the  cleverest.  An  interesting 
woman  only  marries  to  secure  a  refuge  from  which 
to  make  other  forays  if  she  wishes." 

She  turned  away  in  cold  reserve:  "Enough — 
I'm  married,  you  see." 

"And  going  to  Rand's  mills,  Ennisley  said  the 
other  night.  By  the  Lord,  you  in  a  mill-town !  You, 
who  would  give  nothing  to  any  man  except  for  ease, 
position, — a  refuge  when  you  were  tired.  Eh,  yon 
—at  Randsville !" 

"It's  not  true  we're  going  there.  This  strike  is 
uglier  than  ever.  But  I — I'm  hopeless  in  such  mat- 
ters." 

"And  at  your  feet  Ennisley  crouches,  watching 
you  like  a  fond  dog.  Eh — men  are  fools !" 

The  wife  in  silence  looked  across  the  flit  of  spring 
green  to  the  sparrows  in  the  bare  ivy  of  the  next 
house  wall. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  91 

"Your  position  here  is  absurd,"  she  said  at  last, 
and  her  voice  had  impersonalized  her  interest  in 
him.  "Your father  refuses  to  receive  you — you  are 
a  fugitive,  you  say.  You  dare  come  here  day  by 
day,  unasked — a  challenge  to  every  good  and  loyal 
thought  that  can  arise  in  this  house.  Have  you 
nothing  beyond  it  all  ?" 

His  small  eyes:  twinkled  malice :  "Sufficient  unto 
the  day.  I  need  not  think — Brother  John  does  that 
for  me.  I  eat,  sleep,  drink,  quarrel  with  him,  read 
his  dreary  Scotch  books.  But  he's  got  a  soul.  I'll 
tell  you  something.  I'm  tired  of  being  hunted.  I 
was  known  by  another  name  in  the  Telluride  camps. 
Here,  as  Stephen  Rand's  son,  I've  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  Colorado  military — anyhow,  their  guard 
is  rotted  and  forgotten  now,  or  ought  to  be.  And 
I'm  back — I  want  my  place.  Here  the  cotton  mills 
have  grown  monstrous  with  profit.  They've  made 
the  old  man  hog-fat  with  money,  and  money's 
power.  I  want  it — I'm  going  to  stay.  That  col- 
lege husband  of  yours  is  trying  to  wheedle  half 
Rand's  fortune  to  his  preaching,  and  I  want  to  stay 
and  make  my  place.  I  think,  in  fact,  I  will  go,  hat  in 
hand,  and  a  hangdog  face,  and  ask  that  old  clacker 
of  laws  to  forgive  me.  He's  got  money,  and  it  ought 
to  be  mine.  Money's  power — I  could  sting  the  soul 
of  the  world  to  madness  if  I  had  enough  money." 

She  watched  his  Jesuit's  mouth.  "Be  still,"  she 
said  quietly.  "His  mother's  here." 

Mrs.  Ennisley  looked  timidly  in  the  room.     She 


92  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

saw  her  daughter-in-law  and  came  on  with  her  husky 
note  of  equivocating  apology,  her  hand  up  to  her 
skinny  neck  to  see  if  her  collar  was  properly  pinned 
—which  it  was  not,  an  inch  of  yellow  flesh  between 
it  and  the  band.  "Demetry,"  she  quavered,  "is  my 
boy  up  yit  ?" 

"In  the  study  and  waiting  to  be  called.  He's 
working,  as  usual,  before  breakfast." 

The  little  old  lady  from  Iowa  peered  uncertainly 
at  the  man  across  the  table.  His  rough  coat,  the  blue 
shirt  collar  upturned — the  garb  seemed  friendly 
to  her  in  the  stealthy  foreign  atmosphere  of  this 
great  house  which  always  appalled  her.  Rand 
looked  gravely  back  at  her,  the  ungainly  figure,  the 
ill-made  dress.  He  nodded  slowly,  and  she  made  a 
vague  curtesy. 

"This  is  Judge  Rand's  son,  mother,"  the  wife 
said  indifferently. 

The  country  woman  was  startled:  "So?  I 
heard — "  she  went  on,  after  a  nervous  pause — "that 
you'd  once  been  a  preacher  o'  the  Word." 

He  smiled;  the  wife's  face  hardened.  "I  am 
more,  madam;  I  am  the  text." 

Her  poor  wits  wandered ;  she  fluttered  about  the 
room,  a  hapless  mother  bird,  bedraggled  before  the 
full-plumed  nurture  of  the  other  woman;  she  tried 
to  smile  at  his  evident  pleasantry.  "It's  noble  work, 
sir,  for  them  that's  called.  I  wanted  my  son  to  pre- 
pare for  the  ministry  and  he  thought  well  of  it 
once — "  she  broke  off,  fatuously  laughing  to  put 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  93 

herself  at  ease.  Her  son  had  entered.  He  was 
distinctive  in  his  silk  morning  jacket,  but  his  eyes 
had  a  wild  look — you  would  have  believed  him 
trapped.  And  behind  him  was  Miss  Hergov.  The 
secretary  held  a  yellow  telegraph  form  which  now 
the  professor  took  mechanically,  with  no  heed  to 
his  mother's  turning. 

"A  riot  at  the  mills/'  he  said  studiedly,  "a  bomb 
thrown  among  the  police  at  the  gate  of  Rand's 
stockade.  Five  were  killed." 

In  the  peace  of  the  day,  the  windows  open  to 
the  north  air,  the  swallows  twittering  across  the 
grass,  morning  wet  and  cobwebbed,  they  were  still. 
The  telegram  fluttered  from  Corbett's  fingers  to  the 
carpet.  And  without  moving  from  her  steps  the 
wife's  white  hand  reached  to  it,  picked  it  up.  They 
could  each  hear  the  crinkle  of  the  paper  as  she 
smoothed  it  to  read. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  "just  as  you  thought 
everything  was  settled." 

The  mother  looked  on  them  in  bewildered  fear 
and  silence. 

"It's  bad — "  Corbett  spoke  as  a  man  briefly 
stunned — "the  thing  has  come — what  I  was  trying 
to  prevent — a  bomb,  and  thrown  from  the  steps  of 
the  university  settlement — my  boys,  the  mill-hands 
I'd  worked  for!" 

Behind  him  Louise  Hergov  had  moved  up.  She 
touched  his  arm,  a  motion  so  soft  that  they  seemed 
not  to  see.  But  Rand's  alert  eyes  were  on  her  and 


94  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

on  the  other  man's  start  and  then  his  quick  relief,  as 
if  the  girl  had  whispered  some  noble  solace. 

The  wife  came  swiftly  to  him.  "Corbett — it's 
ruin!" 

"An  outrage — "  he  went  gravely  on,  "planned  by 
some  of  the  anarchistic  element  that  came  down 
from  New  Jersey  when  the  strike  began.  I  knew 
there  were  agitators  imported — secret  meetings  of 
hotheads — the  foreign  element." 

"The  mill-hands  you  were  teaching  English?" 
cried  the  wife.  "You  taught  them.  Corbett,  they'll 
lay  it  to  you — the  mill  owners,  the  papers,  the 
courts !" 

"I  suppose  so."  He  looked  at  Louise  by  his  side. 
"It's  a  sad  ending  of  all  I  tried  down  there." 

"No,"  retorted  the  secretary,  "you  never  taught 
violence!  You  tried  to  help — splendidly!"  She 
caught  his  hand  and  held  it  with  her  cry — "You  gave 
yourself,  and  they  shall  understand — the  whole 
world  shall!" 

The  color  rose  to  her  pale  face ;  she  held  his  hand 
in  a  caress.  The  wife's  eyes  were  on  them.  "Good 
somehow — "  the  girl  pleaded — "O,  good  must  come 
of  it  all!" 

"But  the  endowment  from  Judge  Rand,"  the  wife 
persisted,  "and  your  place  at  the  university — every- 
thing !  You've  been  so  foolishly  bitter — denouncing 
the  absentee  proprietors,  the  legislature,  the  indus- 
trial system — and  they've  said  ,you  were  making 
class  war — class  hatred — " 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  95 

She  saw  Rand's  cunning  eyes  on  her,  then  shift 
to  the  girl  and  to  her  husband — his  somber,  enig- 
matic smile,  then  his  unmoved  gravity. 

The  professor  stood  back,  his  arms  folded,  he 
sighed  with  an  air  of  resignation :  "I  taught  what  I 
saw — the  larger  truth,  the  bigger  hope.  I  went  far, 
but  there  must  be  strong  words  and  hard  knocks. 
I  know  the  operators  want  to  break  me — that  there 
are  millions  of  dollars  ready  to  discredit  me  before 
all  America — but  it's  my  work — a  man's  work.  I'll 
not  go  back  an  inch." 

The  wife  faltered.  He  broke  from  Louise's  side 
and  came  to  her.  "I  know,"  she  went  on,  "but, 
Corbett,  your  career — your  home — place — I — your 
wife—" 

The  secretary  turned  away  to  the  window.  The 
old  mother  watched  them ;  then  she  came  lamely  to 
Corbett's  other  side,  her  hand  went  up  to  his  shoul- 
der. 

"My  children,"  she  quavered,  "a  man  who's  done 
no  wrong  can't  be  afraid.  And  my  boy's  done  noth- 
in'  wrong,  and  he  can't  be  afraid,  no — never.  I 
never  brung  my  boy  up  to  be  afraid  o'  truth — to  fear 
to  face  it." 

The  son  started ;  he  put  his  other  arm  around  her 
in  his  old  boyish  simplicity,  his  need  of  homely 
words,  and  women's  praise.  "Little  mother,  don't 
worry.  And,  Demetra,  whatever  comes  we'll  fight  it 
out  together.  It's  a  set-back,  that's  all.  It  can't  harm 
me — stop  me." 


96  MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"That's  my  boy,"  the  mother  whispered,  her  fond, 
foolish  chuckle  coming,  her  yellow  hand  patting  his 
cheek.  "He  can't  go  far  off  the  track,  for  I  set  him 
on  it  right — he  allus  knew  the  right  and  did  the 
right — allus.  His  pore  pa  and  I  decided  that  for 
our  young  ones  before  ever  they  was  born — before 
the  war  when  we  come  West  from  Pennsylvanny, 
month  after  month  in  the  wagon  train.  And  when 
we  all  got  West  and  across  the  Missouri,  the  men 
fightin'  off  the  Indians  clean  to  Cheyenne,  where  we 
settled  first,  and  Jared  trapped  and  traded  long  afore 
railroads  come,  allus  we  thought  that ;  and  when  the 
war  came  we  packed  up  and  came  fightin'  back  to 
civilization  so's  Jared  could  git  in  the  army,  we 
thought  that — allus  that  some  day  we'd  have  sons 
to  make  men  of  big  enough  for  all  creation  and  its 
problems  whatever  they  was  to  be.  And  so  we  raised 
'em  when  they  come.  Them's  my  boys — them's  what 
I  gave." 

She  finished  and  looked  about  in  her  odd  little 
confusion,  but  bright  in  her  pride — she  lent  again 
to  the  son  her  embrace,  and  the  group  was  still.  The 
stenographer  looked  from  the  window;  Rand,  by 
the  table,  was  in  one  of  his  rare  reserves;  then  he 
rose  and  came  near  the  old  woman,  bowing  gravely. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  his  full  voice  like  a  bell,  "when 
the  epic's  written  you'll  have  a  place.  Here,  you 
soft-skinned  woman — listen!" 

But  the  wife  spoke  to  him  with  a  bitter  incre- 
dulity: "Ah,  you!  Is  it  anything  to  you?  Here's 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  97 

something  you  can't  play  at — these  police  dyna- 
mited." 

"The  fools/'  he  murmured — "they  were  paid  for 
it— what  of  it?" 

Corbett  Ennisley  stirred.  "Rand,  it's  pure  an- 
archy you  talk — and  you'll  come  to  be  the  master  of 
the  mills,  I  suppose.  The  police — five  killed  in  a 
riot  there !" 

"Eh — the  fools.  And  these  strikers — these  fel- 
lows who  are  eternally  hammering  one  another.  Five 
dead — eh?  For  my  profit." 

"Rand,  the  police  died  in  defense  of  your  prop- 
erty, in  their  duty." 

"Exactly — the  dull  fools.  What  do  I,  or  my 
property,  care  for  them  or  their  duty?  What  does 
my  money  care  about  them  now  ?" 

Corbett  turned  away.  Miss  Hergov  from  the  win- 
dow caught  his  despair.  The  Jew  girl's  eyes  went 
to  the  man  at  the  table  with  a  fascination  she  could 
not  resist.  This,  then,  was  to  be  the  owner  of  the 
grim  house,  the  director  of  its  fortunes,  the  master 
of  the  south  mills.  In  this  pagan  was  to  be  power 
over  the  lives  of  men  and  women  he  had  never  seen, 
of  whom  he  would  never  hear;  of  destinies  to  go 
down  obscure,  forgotten — out  of  these,  their  flesh 
and  souls  and  dreams,  he  would  build  the  castle  of 
his  desires.  The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  long,  slow- 
gathering  hate.  The  professor  spoke  in  the  silence; 
his  voice  was  husky. 

"I  heard  last  night,  your  father  would  forgive 


9S  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

you.  Ah,  you — who  have  defied  all  human  bonds! 
There's  no  such  thing  with  you  as  duty." 

"It's  all  very  admirable — this  duty.  The  other  fel- 
low's duty.  It's  what  keeps  the  collar  about  his  neck 
and  his  head  bowed — it  is,  in  fact,  why  the  race 
crawls  about  us.  Duty  is  the  last  virtue  of  the  weak, 
as  patriotism  is  the  refuge  of  the  scoundrel.  And  it 
comes  cheap  enough.  When  I  own  Rand's  mills  I 
can  get  children  to  spool  cotton,  and  foremen  to 
drive,  and  police  to  shoot  and  lawyers  to  cackle  one 
way  or  other — each  for  the  precious  jewel — his  duty. 
It  is  an  admirable  thing,  this  duty — small  wonder 
we  are  pleased  with  it." 

The  other  man  did  not  face  him.  It  seemed  that 
the  bright  ardors  of  his  soul  had  died.  The  outcast 
sat  among  them  and  it  was  as  if  they  were  obsessed, 
as  if  on  them  and  the  fair  day  a  shade  had  fallen. 
The  little  country  woman  clucked,  she  seemed  strug- 
gling to  get  past  something  that  had  been  thrust 
down  her  weak  throat.  At  last  Rand  went  on,  easily, 
untouched,  his  eyelids  merely  lifting  to  the  other: 

"Doctor  Ennisley,  I  believe  they  call  you  a  so- 
cialist?" 

"Men  have."  Ennisley's  mood  had  hardened. 

"Well,  get  money.  You  can't  be  a  prophet  of  the 
brotherhood  without  money.  Get  money,  or  it  will 
get  you.  It  will  sear  over  your  fine  dreams;  it  will 
sicken  your  soul  with  failure.  I  swear  to  you,  get 
money — it's  power;  it's  the  whip-hand  over  Fate; 
it's  the  magician  that  can  dazzle  the  eyes  of  men; 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  99 

that  can  ward  the  avenging  angels  from  you  here, 
and  buy  prayers  for  you  hereafter — yes,  you  can 
build  your  own  god  and  fill  his  temple  with  priests 
to  praise  him — with  money.  Eh  ? — I  know !" 

'I've  thought  of  you  at  times/'  Corbett  muttered, 
"years,  when  you  were  to  me  nothing  but  a  name 
that  was  whispered,  a  legend  of  this  house.  .  .  . 
It  seems  I  wondered  if  you  would  come  back,  and 
what  manner  of  man  you'd  be!  I  dreamed  of  some 
great  thing  in  you — you  might  do  so  much — so 
much!  The  mills — and  three  thousand  souls  de- 
pendent on  them!  Twenty  million  dollars,  I  think 
they  say  you'll  have."  His  flash  of  eagerness  had 
died — "Yes,  I  wondered  what  manner  of  man  you'd 
be — you,  the  rich  man's  son  ?" 

"And  now  you  see,  eh?  I'm  here — I  consent  to 
stay — to  be  the  tame  dog — for  money.  Rand's 
money — it's  power,  life — it  can  gild  the  dreams  of 
a  human  soul — it  can  make  life  exquisite- — a  poem. 
And  it  can  make  men  go  about  you  in  whispers  and 
bend  their  backs  and  fetch  and  carry ;  yes,  and  whim- 
per and  beg — mere  poor  brutes  who  have  to  eat, 
they  say!  Eh? — do  you  believe  me?  I  know — I've 
been  on  the  road,  a  beggar.  I've  crawled  along  the 
highway,  crippled,  dragging  legs  that  seemed  they'd 
never  walk  again."  He  drew  slowly  from  his  pock- 
ets a  gold  coin  and  held  it  where  it  dazzled  in  the 
sunshine.  "See;  it's  the  magician's  crystal.  You 
can,  in  fact,  see  the  world,  hell  and  Heaven  through 
it — with  it  you  can  change  the  prayers  of  men  to 


ioo          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

their  God.    I  say,  then — get  money;  it  alone  can 
work  your  miracles  for  you/' 

Corbett  rose;  he  laughed  aimlessly.  "And  you're 
the  man  I  dreamed  of!  That  I  thought  a  soul  was 
in — you,  the  master  of  the  mills!  O,  I  dreamed  you 
might  feel  some  breath  of  the  brotherhood  arousing 
the  world — the  great  unrest,  social,  spiritual — the 
wonderful  new  world  of  thought,  of  human  feeling, 
for  the  race  to  come !" 

With  a  smile  the  rich  man's  son  watched  him. 
They  stood  across  the  room,  the  antithesis  each  of 
all  the  other  meant  for  himself,  his  relation  to  his 
world — the  man  who  had  come  fighting  up  for  the 
regeneration,  the  outpost  taking  the  brunt  of  savage 
wars  before  the  era  of  the  builders ;  and  the  other, 
the  defying  materialist,  the  predatory  lord,  the  indi- 
vidualist. Between  them  as  they  stood  the  age  of 
the  North  sea  kings  and  an  unborn  era  lay. 

Rand's  smile  took  an  ironic  pity. 

"Doctor,  what  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world 
to  you  ?" 

"The  brotherhood  to  come." 

"You've  never  known  it." 

"I've  given  my  life  to  it." 

The  other's  supercilious  smile  deepened.  "You 
are  an  old  woman  gabbling  over  a  possible  change 
in  the  weather." 

The  wife  put  in  impatiently.  "Enough  of  this. 
Here's  this  riot.  They'll  lay  it  to  you,  Corbett." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  IGI 

"What  shall  you  do?"  she  persisted. 

He  was  silent.    Rand's  voice  came.  ^ 

"Do?" 

"Yes — yes !    Here's  this  trouble  on  us !" 

"Trouble  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world. 
It  might  make  you  really  of  some  worth  in  the  end." 

They  stared  at  him.  The  wife  angrily  repeated : 
"Now  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"Do?    Why  find  the  truth,  and  tell  it." 

"What  nonsense.    It  may  ruin  him !" 

"Well?"  he  smiled  airily.  "What  then,  if  it  does?" 

The  doctor  stirred  before  this  banter.  "Demetra, 
I  shall  not  fear — we  shall  not  fear!" 

"Fear?"  Rand's  wonder  mocked  him.  "Why 
fear?  What's  it  good  for?" 

Ennisley  looked  from  him  to  his  mother,  and  then 
with  his  arm  about  her,  went  from  the  room.  The 
two  other  women  stood  staring  at  Rand,  sunk  now 
in  a  chair,  replete  with  some  satisfaction. 

"You  women,"  he  said  patiently,  "are  always  fly- 
ing for  refuge  to  some  cant  or  other,  and  fear  is 
the  chief.  I  have  studied  you  long,  seeking  for 
something  to  glorify.  I  would  like  to  fling  you  all 
in  the  cauldron  of  great  decisions  and  have  you  come 
through  erect,  proud,  free.  I  doubt  if  you  ever  do — 
the  fear  of  the  cave  man  and  the  mystery-mongering 
of  priests  is  too  much  for  you.  Eh  ?  The  pity  of  it !" 

They  still  stared  at  him ;  then  the  wife  with  an  im- 
patient gesture  left  the  room.  Louise  Hergov  did 
not  stir;  when  he  leisurely  lifted  his  gaze  he  met  her 


102  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

eyes  of  astonishing  blue  fixed  on  him,  widening, 
un  fearing. 

He  laughed  in  some  ascetic  humor.  But  she  did 
not,  fighting  to  steel  herself  against  the  power  of  his 
ruthless  measuring.  She,  who,  in  the  secret  drama 
of  her  soul,  dreamed  of  herself  as  this  which  he 
sought  to  glorify. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LOUISE  looked  at  him  quietly. 
"Well,"  he  murmured,  and  returned  her 
gaze  with  that  trace  of  menace  in  the  outthrust  of 
his  chin,  "are  you,  too,  going  to  bark  at  me  ?"  And 
after  the  condemnation  of  her  study,  he  inquired, 
with  some  patience,  "What's  your  name?  It  seems 
to  have  slipped  my  mind." 

"I  am  Miss  Hergov,"  she  answered,  in  a  dignity 
which'but  lightened  his  eye  the  more.  She  knew  of 
him  evilly  well;  his  tradition  was  a  part  of  the 
stealth  of  the  house,  the  gibing  silences,  the  gro- 
tesque shapes — he  had  robbed  its  honor,  its  peace — 
he  was  indifferent  to  its  hate.  To  Louise  he  had 
come  to  personify,  in  her  day-long  residence  here  at 
work,  the  overreaching  spirit  of  America ;  the  over- 
lording power  of  the  holders  of  things — she,  with 
her  vague  dreams,  her  memories  of  class  oppression 
and  old  world  hopelessness,  now  that  he  was  before 
her,  tried  to  despise  him,  to  detest  his  dominance 
as  an  apotheosis  of  all  she  hated. 

"You  are  a  foreign  woman,"  he  went  on,  un- 
moved, "I  can  guess  your  history.  Back  of  you  some- 
where is  a  skinny  old  dullard  in  a  skull  cap  of  velvet 

103 


io4  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

— he  sells  and  buys.  You,  yourself,  would  have  been 
packed  into  the  shops  or  factories  for  some  man's 
profit  but  for  some  trick  of  fortune.  A  girl  of  the 
sweat-shops  and  tenements — and  you  escaped.  You 
ought  to  be  devilishly  glad  for  any  picking  we  throw 
you  now.  I,  indeed,  am  sorry  for  you." 

"Sorry  ?"  she  echoed,  out  of  her  surprise. 

"Here — this — "  he  extended  to  her  a  golden- 
hearted  marguerite  from  the  table — "put  this  in  your 
hair." 

"My  hair  ?" 

"Yes."  She  had  taken  the  thing  in  some  wonder; 
he  went  on :  "In  your  hair — make  yourself  over  to 
please  me.  I  am  the  rich  man's  son.  You  are  Louise, 
a  girl  of  the  factories — I  think  there  are  some 
hundreds  like  you  in  the  mills  South." 

She  drew  calmly  from  him.  "The  flower,"  he 
went  on — "in  your  hair.  Make  yourself  to  please 
me — I  assure  you  it  is  worth  while.  I  do  not  often 
ask  anything  of  a  woman.  There  is  a  touch  of  the 
Orient  in  your  features — lend  it  this  bit  of  the 
daisy's  heart.  Your  eyes — an  astonishing  blue.  They 
call  you  a  good  woman,  doubtless?" 

She  stirred — his  dulcet  tones  went  on  in  their  gar- 
rulous shift  and  play;  "I  know  it's  irritating  to  a 
woman  to  be  told  she's  good.  But  they  are  .  .  . 
so  is  a  cow."  And  against  her  rising  sense  of  out- 
rage, he  continued :  "See  here ;  let's  look  upon  each 
other  as  we  are.  I  am  the  rich  man's  son — you,  a 
girl  of  that  stupid  and  amoristic  beast,  the  people. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  105 

Eh? — you  and  your  kind?  There  are  many  of  you 
in  the  south  mills.  I  could  open  to  you  the  gates  of 
life  such  as  you'll  never  see  in  all  your  cramped  half- 
lived  days.  You  are  a  magnificent  dreamer.  I  could 
make  life  for  you,  with  your  exquisite  senses,  an  in- 
comparable thing — you  can  not  even  imagine  it. 
Eh  ? — you're  pretty — rather — and  you're  poor.  You 
want  to  live,  feel,  be — to  cry  out  with  passion,  to 
love  and  be  loved — to  have  the  rapture  of  life  within 
you.  And  you  have  nothing  except  a  sour  duty  that 
will  cackle  over  the  wrinkles  to  come  in  your  face, 
the  dimming  of  your  eyes !  Eh  ? — well — "  he  turned 
away,  as  if  dismissing  her  with  serious  authority. 
"The  marguerite — in  your  hair — close  down — your 
neck  in  back.  It  is  a  spot  on  women  where  God  hes- 
itated with  His  fingers  in  the  clay  wondering  if  He 
should  go  on  with  the  job.  But  put  it  there  to  re- 
member that  I  am  T,  and  you  are  you — and  I  offered 
you  a  flower  and  truth,  and  not  pretense  and  dis- 
honor." 

She  had  laid  the  blossom  on  the  table.  Seeing  it 
he  came  back,  took  it,  held  it  to  her.  She  stood 
watching  his  inexplicable  humor,  the  shift  of  his 
sardonic  theatricism ;  then,  slowly,  she  took  the  daisy 
and  went  with  it  toward  the  door.  He  seemed  look- 
ing at  her  in  surprise ;  then  his  deep  voice  came. 

"Wait."  She  turned.  "The  professor  who  gab- 
bles about  his  brother  man  and  all  that.  I  see  that 
you  love  him  ?" 

She  started,  her  wide  eyes  grew  stony.     She  said 


io6  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

calmly:  " Who  are  you,  to  question  me ?"  And  then 
sharply:  "Why  do  you  question  me?" 

"To  amuse  myself,  merely.  Truth? — it  is  a  capi- 
tal pastime !  I  wonder  that  none  of  the  philosophers 
hit  upon  it." 

"You  to  say  that!  You — of  all  men!"  she  cried 
out. 

"I,  my  dear  young  person,  have  never  told  a  lie 
since  I  was  able  to  reason — since  I  made  myself  the 
exquisite  instrument  that  I  am." 

"Good  God !"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  terror.  "Who 
are  you?" 

And  staring  at  his  grave  face  an  instant  she  turned 
and  went  out. 

He  lingered  some  moments.  From  the  other  room 
came  the  muffled  voices  of  the  wife  and  husband. 
Rand  went  from  the  apartments  along  the  bare 
passage  connecting  the  wing  with  the  main  house. 
The  atmosphere  of  made  things,  of  ancient  woods, 
paper,  carpetings  and  brasses,  time-dulled  and  per- 
meated with  bleak  associations — all  the  interflexed 
dreariness  of  the  fixed  and  useless — assailed  him. 
The  house  had  the  precise  and  ordered  method 
of  a  case  of  butterflies  under  glass.  The  son  remem- 
bered the  smell  of  the  great  hall  differing  from  that 
of  the  rear  passage,  and  this  from  the  staircase,  and 
that  from  the  library. 

He  went  across  the  hall  to  the  sunny  room  that 
opened  on  the  decaying  conservatory,  its  glass  roof 
patched  with  tin  sheet  plates,  the  moldings  loose, 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  107 

the  muslin  shades  half-drawn  and  torn.  The  sun 
from  the  spring  sky  fell  through,  flicking  the  massed 
and  formal  green  of  young  narcissus,  gladioli,  car- 
nations and  beds  of  new-mixed  earth.  Beyond,  the 
bent  back  of  an  old  caretaker  bobbed  rhythmically 
up  as  he  dug  behind  some  benches. 

But  nearer  him,  by  the  door,  he  came  upon  Louise, 
crouched  by  a  bed  of  moist  fresh-smelling  soil,  her 
fingers  in  it,  treasuring  the  tender  spires  of  the  baby 
narcissus.  His  shadow  fell  upon  her,  she  looked  up, 
and  then  quickly  back ;  she  spoke  without  again  let- 
ting her  eyes  raise. 

"I  came  here  to  get  away — to  put  my  hands  in 
this — down  here  in  the  mother  earth — to  sweeten 
them — to  be  myself  again,"  her  hot  voice  swept  on. 
"Your  touch  contaminated  me !" 

He  watched  her  digging.  She  seemed  fitted 
to  this  nurturing;  as  the  promise  of  this  young  green 
so  was  she  out  of  earth  and  air  and  water  fashioned 
to  turn  her  face  upward  to  the  light,  to  gladden  a 
moment  in  the  life  of  the  sun,  and  pass  back  to  her 
elemental  diffusing. 

"Something  fresh  and  friendly,  like  dirt,"  she 
went  on,  checking  the  tremor  in  her  throat.  "I 
would  like  to  lay  my  face  in  it — to  be  back  with  the 
great  mother." 

And  then,  because  she  was  conscious  of  his  intent 
on  her  as  she  worked,  her  eyes  glancing  along  the 
vistas  of  greenery  under  the  light,  with  no  other 
noise  than  the  old  gardener  dragging  a  hose  some- 


io8          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

where  beyond  them,  she  had  to  look  up  at  him :  "I 
would  rather  you  did  not  speak  to  me/' 

"Look  at  me  again,"  he  answered,  "again !  Your 
eyes — they  are  unfearing.  It  is  unusual — the  tribe 
has  tamed  the  most." 

And  her  steadfast  gaze  did  not  waver  from  his 
own.  "You're  strange,"  she  muttered,  after  the 
pause.  "I  try  to  guess.  It  seems  you  might  do  great 
things  .  .  .  and  I  hate  you !" 

"I,"  he  answered,  unmoved,  "am  capable  of  all 
the  heroisms.  And,  perhaps,  no  more.  Large  men 
for  the  heroisms,  small  men  for  the  achievements." 

"I  think,"  she  started  up  and  stared  at  him,  "that 
you  are  the  very  soul  of  vanity." 

"YouVe  hit  upon  a  weakness,"  he  retorted,  "that 
appears  to  be  truth.  I  do,  indeed,  lie  awake  nights 
cudgeling  my  brains  as  to  how  finely  I  may  say  a- 
thing  the  next  morning  to  make  them  gape  at  me. 
Truth  ? — you  have  hit  upon  its  very  button." 

And  while  she  watched  him  clearly,  lashing  her 
mind  to  make  way  against  him,  they  heard  the  old 
gardener's  voice  raised  in  answer.  Another  spoke, 
and  along  the  damp  decayed  brick  walk  Mrs.  Ennis- 
ky  came,  her  skirts  flicking  the  overhanging  grasses 
and  sprawling  shoots  of  the  fern  beds.  She  did  not 
pause  at  sight  of  them,  but,  shading  her  eyes  across 
the  raised  beds,  spoke. 

"Mr.  Ennisley  was  looking  for  you,  Louise.  I 
sent  Ellen,  but  she  did  not  find  you.  There's  some 
message — dictation — I  believe." 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  109 

The  secretary  nodded  silently ;  they  heard  her  step 
along  the  walk,  and  across  the  graveled  space  and 
wooden  step  to  the  house. 

"Her  eyes,"  Rand  said  -at  last,  "there  is  a  marvel 
in  them.  Have  you  noticed  it  ?" 

"This  is  like  you — amuse  yourself  with  your  con- 
ceits. You're  curiously  like  a  child,  who  will  absorb 
itself  pulling  a  flower  to  pieces." 

"A  delight  to  look  into,  to  find  the  soul  in  it,  to 
lift  the  thing  up  and  gaze  at  it  with  a  child's  wonder. 
That  is  the  very  stuff  of  life.  Yes — to  gaze  with 
a  child's  wonder — a  pagan's  marveling  at  the  mys- 
teries." 

The  wife  evaded  him  with  a  stinging  impatience : 
"O,  will  you  be  still!" 

"Have  you  ever  known  me  silent  when  I  wished 
to  talk?  I  must  consider  myself  fortunate.  I  have 
stumbled  upon  one  of  those  intensely  interesting  af- 
fairs— a  complete  little  human  drama,  acute,  throb- 
bing, with  a  variety  of  chances,  holding  within  it 
all  the  potentialities  of  the  soul." 

"What  are  you  saying?"  she  retorted  sharply. 

"Here  is  its  completeness;  old,  very  old,  and 
yet  new — new  as  the  sunlight  now  upon  you.  Here 
is  a  man  and  two  women.  .  .  .  You,  naturally, 
are  one.  You,  with  your  comforting  love  of  ease 
and  cat-like  pleasure,  to  lie  back  complacent,  ac- 
cepting, purring— filled  with  the  satisfaction  of 
sense.  And  here  is  the  other  secretly  aflame  with  the 
sacrificial  idea.  I  swear  to  you  she  thinks  herself 


I  io          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

capable  of  all  the  immolations  that  a  woman  will 
suffer  for  love.  She  can  imagine  herself  crucifying 
her  heart  to  feed  her  soul  on  this  hero-worship.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  sublimation  past  tears,  or  the  possi- 
bility of  gross  act  or  speech.  Therefore  your  cat's 
place  by  his  fire  is  quite  safe.  She'd  never  consent 
to  lose  an  atom  of  this  martyring  sweetness.  She's 
quite  mad  with  its  quality — and  I  can't  blame  her. 
The  sacrificial  idea  for  love — even  what  they  can't 
have — while  episodic,  common  enough,  with  women 
has  a  distinct  dramatic  appeal.  I,  myself,  have  often 
been  tempted  to  experiment  with  it." 

She   had   stared   at   him,   puzzled   in   suspicion. 

"What's  this,  now?"  she  cried. 

He  put  the  tips  of  his  index  fingers  together  and 
went  on  with  an  airy  disinterestedness,  as  a  good- 
humored  schoolmaster  would  explain:  "Why,  it's 
plain  enough.  Here  you  are — the  three.  This  girl 
at  the  man's  feet — her  life,  all  her  life,  in  this  wor- 
ship of  what  she  imagines  is  in  him  and  his  rushing 
about  at  his  perplexities  of  saving  the  beast.  Then, 
there  are  you,  idle,  amused,  watching,  sure  of  your 
power  over  him  from  his  passion  for  you.  And  here 
is  he,  hurt,  confused,  half-turning  from  you  at  times 
to  her,  seeking  the  splendor  he  dimly  feels  is  in  her 
— eh?  Am  I  not  right — is  not  this  the  diagnosis? 
Or,  we'll  say,  the  prologue  ?  And  here  I  sit  to  see. 
I  congratulate  myself — I  understand  clearly — I  hold 
up  my  crystal  and  watch  with  the  singleness  of  ad- 
miration of  the  connoisseur.  Here  are  three  souls. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  in 

Here  are  jealousy,  ambition,  hate,  pure  dreams,  in- 
finite loyalty,  and  through  and  under  all  the  easy 
flit  back  to  the  barbaric  passions  in  us  all.  Even  I 
can  not  quite  complete  my  evolvement  from  them. 
Eh?  The  thing  in  this  house  charms  me.  It  is  as 
though  one,  in  brushing  aside  the  dust  and  rubbish 
of  a  curio-shop,  had  come  upon  a  jewel,  marvelously 
cut,  which  the  dealer  had  no  idea  he  possessed.  You 
— he — the  other  woman!  I  shall  be  interested  in 
watching  it  work  out." 

She  drew  up  her  strong  shoulders  in  disdain. 
"Well,  then?"  she  retorted,  "what  then?" 

"Truth?"  he  ventured  easily,  "I  am  right?" 

"As  you  please.    I  am  indifferent." 

"She  loves  him — and  you  watch,  amused." 

"Frankly,  yes." 

"So,"  he  went  on,  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  dem- 
onstrator of  physics.  "Thank  you.  Here  he  is 
between  you  two — blinded  by  passion  for  you, 
stumbling  back  to  the  hero-worship  she  gives  him. 
He  stands  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss." 

She  lost  her  studied  calm.  "You  mean  the  riots — 
his  career,  reputation — in  the  balance  ?" 

"When  he  falls  who  shall  be  by  his  side,  eh  ?  You, 
the  warm  cat  by  his  fire,  or  she,  the  priestess  of  his 
soul  ?  Ah,  what  a  study !  It  will  show  you  all  up 
excellently!" 

Her  face  paled  as  the  cello  of  his  voice  flowed 
on.  But  she  said  calmly :  "Go  on — it's  like  you — 
play  the  fool.  I  do  not  fear  you." 


U2  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"The  prologue,"  he  continued  leisurely,  "is  done. 
I  shall  now  watch  with  uncommon  interest.  She 
loves  him,  and  you?  With  the  exception  of  myself, 
you  have  never  loved  anything.  Well,  do  not — it  is 
bad  for  the  figure  and  the  complexion." 

Staring  at  him  in  a  sort  of  hate  she  went  back  to 
the  professor's  mother,  who  was  knitting  a  pink 
necktie  for  the  reformer. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BYRON  HAYES,  manager  of,  and  junior  part- 
ner in  Rand's  mills,  came  from  the  northern 
Alabama  town  two  days  after  the  riots  to  consult 
with  the  chief  owner.  He  was  a  fair,  rotund  man 
of  the  American  type,  obsessed  by  class-conscious- 
ness, but  unwittingly,  as  the  self-made  man  invari- 
ably is.  He  had,  therefore,  the  comfortable  theory  of 
the  self-made,  that  the  land  and  its  development  were 
held  in  fee  from  God  for  the  cunning  and  the  strong 
who  could  rise  above  the  lesser;  from  which  came 
inevitably  the  deduction  that  perpetuation  of  privi- 
lege inhered  in  him  and  his  kind,  whom  God,  the  con- 
stitution and  the  courts  had  created  and  would 
maintain  for  this  admirable  duty  before  the  eyes  of 
other  men.  No  one,  therefore,  was  more  ardent  in 
his  denunciation  of  "class  feeling"  and  "class  con- 
sciousness," than  Mr.  Hayes;  his  patriotism,  too, 
had  the  ring  of  solid  worth,  the  resonance  of  the  re- 
spectable; he  would — for  God,  the  constitution  and 
the  courts — have  sacrificed  a  million  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  in  the  field ;  and  would,  moreover,  have 
stayed  at  home  busily  to  manufacture  clothes  to 
cover  them,  food  to  feed  them,  arms  for  them  to 


H4  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

slay  others;  and  would,  as  a  final  attestation  of  his 
devotion,  have  accepted  the  bonds  of  their  indebted- 
ness to  him  and  his  thence  on  while  the  Republic 
should  endure,  if  need  be. 

Mr.  Hayes  had  a  minute  and  acrimonious  report 
to  make  to  the  chief  proprietor  at  Randsville;  after 
this,  he  dined  with  the  judge.  By  the  latter's  direc- 
tion Doctor  Ennisley  was  present,  and,  it  being  his 
usual  night,  John  Bride  appeared.  Naturally,  Ennis- 
ley was  constrained  in  the  presence  of  the  man 
whose  persistent  opposition  had  been  the  obstacle 
to  his  schemes  for  Rand's  mills  looking  to  their  evo- 
lution as  a  model  industrial  establishment.  The  con- 
versation, despite  Stephen  Rand's  considerateness, 
soon  transcended  the  amicable  relations  of  fellow 
guests,  for  Mr.  Hayes'  patience  was  small.  He  had 
the  smallness  of  the  middle-class  mind  against  the 
modernistic  spirit  of  the  universities;  Doctor  Ennis- 
ley was  the  embodiment  of  this  traitorous  unrest, 
social,  economic,  spiritual,  which  had  seized  "the 
masses,"  a  favorite  phrase  of  this  one-time  clerk  in 
a  Buffalo  dry-goods  house  who  had  married  a  dress- 
maker's assistant  of  New  Jersey  before  the  war 
came  to  give  the  self-made  an  exceptional  oppor- 
tunity. 

"And  now  the  thing's  done,"  he  concluded  a 
lengthy  and  fervid  setting- forth  of  the  situation  at 
Rand's  mills — "now  the  bomb's  thrown,  it's  the  cue 
for  all  the  college  socialists  and  preachers  with  their 
maudlin  sympathy  for  the  shiftless  and  incapables 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  115 

to  run  to  cover.  These  men  who,  in  the  magazines 
and  in  their  lectures,  have  made  a  trade  and  reputa- 
tion by  questioning  the  solid  interests  of  America, 
who  have  overturned  the  confidence  of  investors  and 
aroused  the  suspicions  of  the  masses — now,  that  all 
their  yawp  has  borne  fruit  in  anarchy,  they  run  to 
cover!" 

The  old  justice  was  silent  Beneath  his  grim 
quality  lay  a  fineness  of  courtesy,  a  many-sided  ca- 
pacity ;  he  had,  moreover,  felt  a  weakness  in  his  po- 
sition as  an  interpreter  of  organic  law  and  as  a 
partisan  in  the  social  cleavage  which  his  industrial 
interests  forced  to  his  attention.  It  had  been  this 
consciousness  of  issues  and  his  personal  nearness 
to  them  that  had  led  him  to  harbor  Doctor  Ennisley's 
heresies,  which  now  rebuked  him,  as  they  had  tried 
his  patience  the  past  year.  He  looked  across  the 
board  at  Ennisley,  silent  and  constrained,  before  the 
indictment. 

"And  if  this  is  what  the  colleges  teach,"  went  on 
the  self-made,  "then  down  with  the  colleges — if  this 
is  what  the  paid  professors  advocate,  bridle  them. 
Yes,  make  them  directly  responsible  for  the  outlawry 
they  bring  about !" 

Ennisley  spoke  in  the  junior  partner's  pause: 
"Hayes,  have  you  thought  out  clearly  what  you're 
saying?" 

"I  know  this,"  retorted  the  other,  glad  at  the 

-  chance  to  fasten  his  generalities  home,  "that  before 

you  were  allowed  to  come  to  Randsville  and  meddle 


n6  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

with  your  settlement  among  the  hands,  and  to  agi- 
tate shorter  hours,  state  inspection,  weave-room  ven- 
tilation, model  cottages,  and  so  on,  there  never  had 
been  a  strike  in  that  district.  And  I  know  that  ever 
since  there  has  been  friction,  discontent,  and  now 
riots — anarchy — murder." 

"Yes;  discontent  with  ignorance,  with  wrong  to 
the  children — a  hideous  and  intolerable  race  wrong. 
Judge  Rand  knows  what  I've  done  in  his  mill-town. 
Ignorant,  dirty,  despised — the  cracker  whites  from 
the  hills,  and  the  Polish  emigrants  the  agents  sent 
there  by  shiploads — yes,  you  are  quite  right,  I 
preached  discontent!" 

"Class  hate — revolution — treason  to  America — 
nothing  less!" 

Ennisley  turned,  his  patience  hardening,  danger- 
ously calm.  "Better  homes — a  school — a  chance  at 
life.  Yes,,  I've  told  them  of  other  things  that  Amer- 
ica might  mean — the  dawn  of  the  new  day,  the 
higher  man." 

Hayes  snorted:  "And  here  unde.r  this  roof — 
that  is  the  incredible  thing  about  it — under  the  roof 
of  a  justice  of  the  supreme  court,  you  have  found 
a  listener  to  your  gospel  of  revolt !" 

"Tut,  man" — the  old  justice  had  listened  with  a 
grim  irony — "this  will  not  do — not  do.  I  think, 
Doctor,  we  have  been  overzealous,  we  have  gone  far 
afield,  and  routed  up  strange  game.  The  country 
to-day  is  looking  at  your  radicalism  with  suspicious 
eyes.  This  affair  down  there  has  centered  men's 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  117 

eyes  on  you  and  your  new  school  of  thought.  It  is 
against  the  basic  idea  of  America,  you  will  admit." 

"It  is  what  he's  taught  in  the  college  settlement 
down  there  to  the  scum  of  Europe ;  it  is  what  he's 
preached  at  his  assemblies  and  in  his  class-room; 
it  is  what  he's  been  after  in  the  legislatures,  and 
through  Congress.  He  has  made  this  college, 
founded  by  you,  Judge  Rand,  to  stand  out  as  the 
hotbed  of  rabid  thought.  He's  only  one  of  a  nest 
of  professors  there  who's  stood  forth  to  the  country 
in  this  light.  All  this  in  the  school  that  owes  its  very 
existence  to  you,  Judge  Rand — here,  under  your 
very  roof  was  bred  this  attack  on  law,  society." 

"Hayes,  my  friend,  will  you  be  calm  ?  This  is  no 
way  to  approach  the  matter.  The  laws  stand — they 
will  protect  and  punish." 

"Yes,  now  the  thing's  done — anarchy  in  the 
mills." 

The  old  judge  sighed ;  he  had  been  sore  beset  of 
late ;  he  had  borne  the  secret  brunt  of  Corbett  Ennis- 
ley's  brilliant  forays  many  times  from  his  associates 
on  bench  and  in  his  associations  with  men;  he  had 
felt  himself  more  than  patient. 

"It's  well  enough  to  have  the  country  understand 
the  matter,"  went  on  the  superintendent;  "to  have 
it  clear  that  the  bomb  that  killed  five  policemen  was 
thrown  from  the  steps  of  the  settlement  in  shanty- 
town  where  this  revolutionary  teaching  had  gone  on 
among  the  foreigners  by  a  group  of  college  men — 
Americans,  whom  they  knew  as  men  of  note.  You 


n8          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

can't  get  away  from  it  that  the  police  charged  this 
building  to  break  up  a  riotous  demonstration  and 
from  the  inside  a  bomb  was  hurled  from  among  the 
sort  of  scum  who  had  been  gathered  there  to  be  up- 
lifted"— he  threw  all  of  his  ponderous  contempt  into 
the  phrasing — "enlightened — bah !" 

The  college  settlement's  founder  was  silent  for  a 
time.  "I  would  like  to  have  been  there,"  he  said. 
"It  is  hard  to  believe  that  my  boys — that  such  a 
thing  is  possible." 

"Possible?  The  police  know  of  secret  meetings 
there — of  a  fellow  from  Newark — an  out-and-out 
anarchist — who  harangued  the  mill-hands  night  after 
night  in  the  basement  of  your  building,  in  the  very 
room  you  used  to  talk  in.  I  wish  to  God  the  country 
knew  all  this — that  it  had  come  to  light !" 

"I  taught  nothing  of  that — knew  nothing.  I  urged 
the  unionizing  of  the  hands,  yes.  I  told  the  yard- 
men to  help  the  girl  workers  organize.  I  put  the 
night  school  on  its  feet  to  give  them  an  outlet — a 
hope—" 

"You  openly  preached  socialism,"  retorted  Hayes, 
"the  chief  has  statements  from  a  dozen  boys  of  the 
sort  of  things  you  said." 

The  justice  stirred ;  he  turned  to  his  protege  qui- 
etly, but  with  a  serious  and  ominous  tolerance: 
"Doctor,  is  this  true?  Socialism?  You  preached 
this  to  them — these  ignorant  mill-hands?" 

"I  told  them  of  a  better  day,  a  social  dawn  to 
come.  Yes."  Corbett  rose — the  dinner  had  been 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  119 

finished.  "I  held  forth  to  them  a  hope — a  dream  of 
what  America  would  mean  to  their  children — " 

"And  then  you  ran.  off  back  to  Chicago,  while 
your  dupes  threw  a  bomb  for  this  hope — this 
dream.3' 

"Hayes,  I  decline  to  listen."  The  social  worker 
was  pale,  resolute ;  he  went  from  them  with  dignity. 
The  judge's  voice  detained  him  at  the  door;  he 
turned,  his  fine  young-bearded  profile  against  the 
shade.  The  frail  old  man  at  the  head  of  the  table 
raised  his  hand. 

"A  moment,  Doctor.  You  did  not  lend  your  set- 
tlement house  to  these  meetings  knowingly?  You 
knew  of  no  violent  measures — the  attack  on  the  mill 
gates,  Doctor?" 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  shoulders  with  a  sort 
of  despair.  "Judge  Rand,  can  you  ask  that?  Do  I 
need  answer  that  ?" 

The  old  man  watched  him  curiously;  he  nodded, 
his  ghost  of  a  hard  smile  came  back.  "I  trust  in 
you,  sir.  I  believe  you." 

The  younger  man  went  from  them.  It  seemed  to 
John  Bride,  sitting  mute,  expectant,  intent  to  the 
matter,  that  there  was  a  haunted  pathos  in  his  face. 
The  old  Scot  nodded  cannily. 

"He  is  over-impatient,  but  right,  Stephen.  He  be- 
lieves greatly,  and  those  are  seldom  patient.  He 
would  like  to  prick  us  on  over-fast  wi'  his  mil- 
lenniums, when  every  mon  will  have  the  worth  o'  his 
wage  and  a  tight  roof  o'  his  bairns'  heads/' 


122           MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

There's  been  much  to  trouble  me  of  late  years;  and 
it  seems  we  belong  to  a  passing  order.  This  is  not 
the  America  you  came  to  in  the  fifties,  John  Bride, 
or  that  my  line  has  fought  for  since  Ticonderoga." 

"Ye  may  well  say.  It  is  mightier,  more  wonder- 
fu',  man.  And  it  is  comin'  to  more  marvels  yet 
than  we  can  see!" 

But  the  old  judge  shook  his  head.  "Strong  men 
are  needed,"  he  answered,  "and  there  seems  none. 
The  old  stock  of  the  Saxon  is  dying.  My  line  itself, 
John — what  is  it  ?  It  was  the  best,  the  elder  blood — 
and  what  has  it  come  to  ?  You  know — you  have  the 
answer  down  at  your  place,  to-night." 

Brother  John  was  sighting  along  the  green  cloth 
under  the  lamp.  "I  will  spot  ye  ten  and  beat  ye, 
Stephen.  .  .  .  And  Her  ford — I  think  he's  tamed 
a  bit — that  in  the  heart  of  the  fool,  he's  sorry.  .  .  . 
I  can  give  ye  fifteen  points  and  wallop  ye.  ... 
There  might  be  much  to  say  for  the  waster,  Stephen, 
him  wi'  his  mother's  trick  o'  eye  .  .  .  and  if 
ye  insist,  I'll  mark  twenty  on  ye'r  string,  for  ye  have 
no  chance  wi'  me.  .  .  .  An'  only  son,  Stephie, 
and  ye'r  own;  I'd  give  him  a  bit  o'  chance.  .  .  . 
I'll  spot  up  half  the  string  for  ye,  and  ye  may  as 
well  sit  down  and  let  me  play  it.  ...  Stephie, 
it's  not  a  fine  thing  for  a  mon  to  sleep  wi'  his  own 
blood  barred  from  his  door  for  deeferances  fifteen 
years  past.  .  .  .  Watch  me  make  this  three- 
cushion,  man!  I'm  not  interferin',  Stephen,  but  why 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          123 

don't  ye  face  him  man  to  man  and  see  what  good 
the  garrulous  fool  has  left  in  him?" 

"There  are  two  fools  of  you  down  there,  though 
one's  not  a  scoundrel  like  the  other,"  retorted  the 
justice;  and  then  his  unpitying  tolerance  spoke  its 
brief  authority.  "Send  Rand  here,  then.  He  can 
have  his  rooms,  he  can  eat  at  my  table — and  be 
damned  with  him.  I  will  not  speak  to  him,  or  com- 
municate with  him  except  when  I  choose.  And  he'll 
not  overbear  me  with  his  insanities.  But  bring  him 
to  dine  with  you  the  next  time.  It  will  test  him,  and 
show  what  I  can  endure  .  .  .  And  you  missed 
your  shot,  John — never  tell  me  this  wigwagging 
foolishness  has  not  stiffened  your  joints !" 

"Go  on,  man,  the  game's  anybody's!  I  was  just 
a  bit  startled." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FROM  the  dining-room  Doctor  Ennisley  went  up 
the  stairs  to  the  hall  leading  to  his  apartments. 
At  the  turn  by  the  great  windows,  there  was  one 
brief  glimpse  of  the  lake,  black  beneath  the  over- 
cast sky,  the  wide,  clean  avenue  stretching  south  and 
north  with  its  double  lines  of  lights.  The  wind  was 
rising  with  a  lonely  stealth.  It  stirred  the  naked  trees 
touching  the  gables,  and  the  syringa  and  lilac  bushes 
beyond  in  the  streak  of  light  which  fell  out  on  the 
lawn  from  the  billiard-room.  The  upper  portion  of 
the  house  lay  in  its  usual  noiseless  melancholy,  and 
to  the  soul  of  the  watcher  from  the  window  this 
presently  crept,  adding  to  his  doubts.  He  was  a  sort 
on  whom  the  weight  of  the  hours  rested  heavily 
wherr  the  flame  of  his  ardors  burned  low;  their 
splendors  were  touched  with  the  oblique  shadows, 
the  sadness  of  reality.  There  was  so  much  to  do, 
so  much  misunderstanding,  bitterness,  hate!  One 
needed  the  crusader's  immolating  fervor  and  a 
giant's  strength ;  Corbett  wondered,  at  his  moments 
of  depression,  how  he  had  the  audacity  to  stand  in 
the  fore  of  the  new  fighting  line,  what  mystic  spirit 
held  him  on?  He  had  denied  it  to  be  ambition,  the 

124 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  125 

solace  the  great  years  were  bringing  for  his  early 
eager  and  starving  life.  He  knew  now  that  he  was 
the  national  figure  in  the  child  labor  reform  move- 
ment; there  were  others  doing  more  substantial 
work,  but  he  was  the  brilliant  figure,  caustic,  dar- 
ing, whipping  up  the  lagging  conscience  of  the  land. 
He  could  afford  to  be  hated,  reviled  while  he  was 
winning  exultantly.  But  it  came  to  him  oddly  that 
he  really  was  a  far  different  man,  a  student  with  an 
indrawing  reserve,  a  soul  that  clung  to  the  sim- 
plicity of  home-making  ways.  He  had  morbid  fore- 
bodings of  himself  in  the  great  crises  of  men's  lives; 
already  he  felt  the  mighty  current  carrying  him  on 
to  the  deeps;  he  knew  he  was  drifting  to  ever  wider 
circles — already  he  was  the  iconoclast  of  creeds  that 
had  nurtured  him ;  he  was  claimed  by  the  ebullient 
humors  of  every  school  of  thought :  more — he  was 
beloved. 

"Yes,  that  man — Ennisley,"  Altmayer,  the  tireless 
propagandist  of  the  active  socialists,  the  father  of 
the  national  party,  had  said  when  reference  had 
been  made  to  the  cotton  mill  agitator's  spectacular 
lobbyings  and  his  invective  writings,  "let  him  be. 
We  don't  need  him  in  our  party — and  he's  doing 
bigger  work  for  us  outside,  reaching  people  who'd 
be  scared  off  if  he  came  to  them  as  an  active  social- 
ist. He's  doing  our  work — he's  making  'em  squirm 
— Ennisley's  all  right  as  he  is." 

Ennisley  had  heard  with  some  confusion;  he  had 
realized  then,  his  acute  position ;  he  was  on  the  crest 


126  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

of  a  wave  he  had  created,  taking  him  he  knew  not 
where,  only,  to-day,  he  was  tasting  the  sweetness 
of  power,  the  exultance  of  victorious  youth — 
his  life  full,  potential.  It  was  an  honest  vanity, 
surely,  that  would  let  a  man  take  measure  of 
himself  as  the  forefront  figure  of  his  cause.  Now, 
after  the  hour  of  his  trial,  facing  Stephen  Rand's 
questions,  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  all,  whose  suf- 
ferance had  made  him  what  he  was  and  was  giving 
him  his  chance  beyond,  the  peace  and  power  of  his 
imaginings  came  back.  He  looked  out  to  the  heart 
of  the  town  to  the  south,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  its  labor  and  achievement,  its  undershift 
of  hopes,  obscure  destinies,  beckoned;  its  army  of 
toilers  with  a  mighty  onward  shouting  beheld  him 
and  were  heartened.  Yes,  he  was  the  man  to  do,  the 
figure  for  a  consecration,  Christ's  brotherhood  to 
men.  Some  day  he  would  preach  that,  too ;  for  he 
was,  at  heart,  essentially  religious.  He  would  find 
the  human  Christ  as  a  symbol  for  the  great  war  of 
the  beaten  and  the  oppressed. 

So  it  was  presently,  in  a  renewal  of  his  faiths  that 
he  went  on  to  the  rooms.  It  was  a  man's  work,  the 
only  thing  worth  while — the  lifting  of  the  race  type 
— he  knew  the  largeness  of  his  vision.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  would  go  South  at  once  and  resolutely 
face  this  affair  at  Rand's  mills.  After  all,  it  was 
only  incidental ;  he  would  refute  it,  clear  his  name 
and  press  on.  Stephen  Rand,  the  chief  owner,  whom 
he  had  led  curiously  on  this  way,  had  not  lost  faith 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  127 

in  him,  and  he  would  go  prove  himself  blameless, 
his  lofty  cause  innocent  of  this  bloody  affair. 

In  the  cheery  living-room  across  from  his  wife's 
reading-table  where  she  sat,  he  came  upon  Rand, 
the  younger,  sprawled  along  the  divan — huge,  un- 
stirred, his  round  face  with  its  odd  mingling  of 
grossness  and  asceticism,  watching  her.  He  did  not 
even  look  up  at  the  husband's  coming. 

And  thenx  at  Corbett's  surprised  greeting,  he 
turned  with  a  ghost  of  ironic  courtesy. 

"You  must  have  come  by  the  side  entrance?" 
queried  the  doctor,  with  a  show  of  hospitable  inter-, 
est,  "there  was  no  announcement." 

"I  did.  I  can  stand  only  so  much  of  John  Bride's 
certitudes  and  moralities — and  I  can  endure  silence 
not  at  all.  And  so  I  chose  to  come  here,  and  sit  by 
your  fire.  It's  to  be  a  rough  night,  man." 

His  eyes  were  on  them  both  and  about  the  room 
in  the  inutile  hunger  of  the  homeless — and  then,  to 
them  came  his  loquacious  malice :  "A  fire  to  sit  by 
from  the  wet ;  to  eat  and  drink,  and  then  lie  by  to 
debate  the  matter." 

The  wife  had  looked  up  with  a  trifle  of  conscious- 
ness in  her  composure  when  Corbett  came  in;  she 
felt  now  sure  of  herself:  "And  you  surely  are  an 
appetizer  after  so  much  of  the  doctor's  frantic 
goodness!" 

The  husband  laughed  with  her  briefly.  To-night  he 
would  have  had  his  work  heartened  by  an  intimate 
appreciation.  Demetra's  careless  mood  stilled  him. 


128          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"How's  little  mother?"  he  went  on,  "and  Tad? 
It's  after  nine,  and  mother's  in  bed,  of  course." 

"An  hour  ago.  And  the  nurse  is  with  the  boy — 
he's  better  to-night." 

The  young  father  had  thought  that  always  it  was 
the  nurse  who  was  with  his  motherless  boy,  ill  or 
well ;  that  always,  in  the  quiet  room  beyond,  Jessie's 
child  was  tucked  away  with  the  nurse  girl  reading; 
while  without,  in  that  irradiation  of  her  softness, 
sat  his  wife.  She  was  always  amused,  friendly,  in- 
teresting— complete.  He  turned  aside.  He  had 
thought  of  calling  up  Louise  to  ask  of  the  last  lec- 
ture she  was  transcribing  as  he  had  shot  it  off  last 
week;  he  would  have  liked  her  voice  over  the  tele- 
phone ;  he  fancied  her  understanding  him  with  only 
a  word  of  eager  inquiry  to  her.  She  had  that  about 
her,  to  know  his  moods,  his  failures  and  his  resolves. 

The  wife  sought  him  curiously  as  he  looked 
through  the  rooms  to  the  study  light  beyond. 

"She's  coming — at  a  quarter  past — "  she  said, 
and  looking  quickly  up,  he  caught  her  idle  smile. 
It  stung  him  with  complex  significances;  he  stam- 
mered confusedly,  he  knew  not  at  what.  The  other 
man's  eyes  were  on  him. 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  the  doctor  answered.  "There's 
some  work  to  do — that  address  before  the  Social 
Equality  Club  Monday  night — I've  been  so  hurried, 
and  Miss  Hergov  has  been  helping  on  the  thing." 
He  did  not  usually  so  address  her.  She  had  been 
"Louise"  always  with  a  frank  fine  camaraderie  to 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  129 

his  wife,  his  associates  and  all  the  world,  never  his 
tribute  to  her  worth  withheld. 

The  wife  went  on  with  good-humored  interest: 
"You've  seen  Mr.  Hayes  at  dinner?  He  had  some 
news  of  this — those  dynamiters?"  She  had  quite  re- 
covered from  her  first  dismay — the  thing  seemed 
passing. 

"Yes.  It  seems  that  the  police  have  all  the  men  in 
the  plot  except  one.  A  fellow  from  Newark — a  pro- 
claimed anarchist — started  all  the  trouble.  He  got 
my  boys  into  it.  Yes,  they  arrested  some  of  them. 
Old  Sonska,  the  gate-man,  and  that  Peter,  and  two 
others  from  Number  Two  mill — that  curly-headed 
little  chap  you  remember?  Peter?  They  were  all 
Poles — all  ignorant,  alien — they  fell  easily  before 
that  blatant  cur.  I'm  starting  South  to-morrow 
night.  I'll  see  into  this." 

She  murmured  indifferently ;  she  had  a  vague 
memory  of  the  two  weeks  she  had  been  at  the  mills 
with  him  last  fall.  They  had  repelled  her  with 
their  roaring,  the  sordid  clatter,  the  gray  walls  over 
the  thin  soil  of  northern  Alabama.  A  dank  sun  ris- 
ing over  the  pine  lands  always  on  this  squalid  pic- 
ture, the  mills,  the  gaunt  red  earth,  the  naked  village 
pouring  each  morning  its  dirty  stream  up  the 
dusty  road  to  the  mills  and  swallowing  it  again.  She 
had  spent  the  time  motoring  along  the  river  with 
the  wife  of  the  resident  superintendent,  while  Cor- 
bett  and  his  secretary  had  been  busied  at  starting 
the  settlement  in  the  new  wooden  hall  Judge  Rand 


1 30  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

had  built  for  this  experiment,  grimly  cynical  but  not 
denying. 

"You  saw  what  the  Chronicle  said?"  the  wife 
went  on.  "It  denounced  your  meddling — it  called 
you  an  unsafe  agitator — " 

He  laughed  briefly ;  before  he  had  not  minded  at- 
tack. "O,  well,  my  dear,  nothing  can  stop  because 
of  that!  We  know  who  owns  the  Chronicle!  I  won- 
der if  Louise  is  coming?  It's  late — and  a  bad  night." 
He  went  to  the  window  and  then  stopped  to  slip 
open  the  door  to  his  child's  chamber.  The  two  that 
sat  without  heard  him  murmur,  he  went  in  the 
room  and  was  kneeling  at  the  bed — he  lifted  the 
tiny  shrunken  form — they  heard  the  boy's  sleepy 
mutter. 

Rand  watched.  His  garrulity  was  sunk  in  a  study 
— the  wife,  the  quiet  room,  the  chamber  beyond,  the 
lamp-glow,  the  young  father  kneeling.  His  gray 
eyes  noted  curiously — what  was  the  texture  of  this 
life,  its  cloaking  of  naked  wounds?  What  was  the 
other  man  finding  here,  and  to  which  he  stood  alien? 
Corbett  came  back  to  them.  It  was  as  if  with 
his  child's  warm  breath  he  had  drunk  strength 
for  a  man's  facing  of  his  fight;  there  was  more 
here,  indeed,  than  the  easy  virtue  of  the  mar- 
ried who  have  bought  their  flesh  and  look  askance 
at  the  unattached.  He  had  come  back  with  shining 
eyes;  it  seemed  that  whatever  had  held  its  shadow 
between  him  and  the  spirit  of  his  work  had  now 
been  precipitated,  and  he  could  go  on  seeing  in  his 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  131 

old  faiths.  He  was  never  given  long  to  despond,  the 
merest  trick  of  sentiment  would  raise  him. 

"O,  it's  good  to  get  back  here,"  he  cried,  and 
looked  even  on  Rand  with  his  ardent  laugh,  "it 
heartens  a  man  for  the  tough  old  fight !  And  a  man 
must  go  on — nothing  can  stand  still.  When  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  it's  wonderful,  this  era  we're 
in — making  the  way  clear.  There'll  be  a  race  to 
evolve  its  own  philosophies  and  moralities — "  it 
was  like  him  to  dismiss  airily  what  other  minds 
would  stumble  at  lifelong — "we  are  the  rough 
workers  far  before  the  better  man." 

The  other's  humor  rose.  "The  man  to  come — the 
devil  take  him !  We  owe  him  nothing.  I  do  not  need 
philosophies,  nor  hopes,  nor  fears,  merely  some- 
thing to  fill  my  mechanism  of  a  stomach  and  breed 
a  mind  to  look  about  with." 

"I  think  you've  been  at  Stirner  and  some  of  those 
doleful  madmen  of  Germans,"  retorted  the  other. 
But  his  flow  was  checked — his  working  ideality, 
youthful,  simple,  ennobling  his  world,  holding  to  the 
need  of  new  interpretations  for  the  spiritual  as  well 
as  the  common  conserving  of  mankind,  had  no  note 
of  the  acrid  spirit  of  another  departure  from  au- 
thority ;  his  was  the  iconoclasm  of  the  crusader,  and 
not  the  super-man.  He  had  been  troubled  at  a  touch 
of  this  in  Louise — he  had  gone  grudgingly  from 
the  faiths  of  his  home-keeping  youth,  he  had  not 
given  the  full  measure  to  reason  or  enlargement. 
His  eyes  were  now  upon  his  wife,  placid  over  her 


1 32  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

stitching.  It  seemed  that  she  had  been  the  last  mile- 
stone of  his  slow  renouncement  of  his  mother's  sim- 
ple orthodoxy.  It  was  a  huge,  hard,  brilliant  world 
to  which  he  had  come,  and  it  accepted  nothing  but 
the  proved.  "I  think,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "a  God's 
behind  it  all — that  after  the  final  evolution  the  race 
will  come  to  sit  with  decent  manners  and  faces  clean 
at  the  Father's  table.  And  now  the  thing  is  to  clear 
the  way,  to  make  the  human  mood  receptive.  Hu- 
man love  will  show  the  light  as  we  need." 

The  wife  listened  inconsequentially;  she  had  her 
old  composure  to  each  of  them.  Rand's  retort  came : 
"Love  is  a  physiological  device  to  keep  the  scheme 
running.  A  trick  of  nature  to  keep  men  interested 
in  it.  I  think,  however,  that  the  curiosity  of  woman 
would  have  her  tampering  with  it  always,  instinct 
or  no  instinct." 

And  the  wife  laughed  with  her  indolent  uncaring. 
Rand  turned  to  her:  "Eh? — is  it  not  so?" 

"Really,"  she  answered,  "I  heard  little  of  what 
you  were  saying — you  both  bore  me  so !" 

He  looked  at  her  and  gravely  broke  the  lie  in  her 
brief  glance.  The  husband  turned  from  the  window, 
he  sighed: 

"You're  strange.  One  wonders  what  you'll  come 
to.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  all  the  possibilities 
were  in  you — you,  an  anarchist  of  the  soul!"  He 
paused;  the  idealizing  sympathy  of  his  own  nature 
flashed  out,  he  was  in  a  noble  pity  for  the  other. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  133 

'There's  something  I  will  tell  you.  I  think  there's  a 
chance  that  your  father  will  forgive  you." 

"Yes?" 

"He's  aging  fast.  He  called  me  to  his  room  the 
other  night.  He  thinks  he's  not  long  to  live.  Rand, 
he  spoke  of  you — he  called  you  'son.'  I  had  never 
heard  that  on  his  lips  before." 

The  renegade's  unstirred  face  did  not  move  from 
its  contemplation  of  the  wife's  white  hands. 

"I've  wondered  at  you,"  the  doctor  went  on.  "It 
seems  so  much  depends  on  you.  O,  there's  much  a 
man  might  do!  Money  could  do  marvels — yes, 
you're  right — a  magician!  I  think  sometimes  that 
on  mere  wealth  men  will  found  their  brotherhood, 
their  gentleness,  their  human  love  will  come  to  be  the 
very  essence  of  materialism — of  reason." 

"Eh? — the  brotherhood — Doctor,  that  is  your 
greatest  thing  in  the  world !" 

"I  told  you  I'd  given  my  life  to  it." 

"Eh,  you  have  not  lived.  You  have  stood  all  the 
time  without,  like  a  boy  staring  over  a  wall  he  can 
not  climb,  to  the  fruit  beyond." 

The  doctor  turned  away  to  watch  from  the  dark 
window.  Between  him  and  the  others  the  gulf  lay 
impassable;  his  mind  dimly  groped  along  it — the 
huge  man  sunken  in  the  chair,  gross,  uncaring,  the 
wife  across  the  table.  The  need  of  work,  of  mighty 
faiths,  ardors  crying  to  the  skies  was  in  him — that 
was  life — its  worth,  its  ecstasy. 

But  they — they  stood  far  off,  beholding  curiously. 


MY    BROTHERS    KEEPER 


m  'the  stillness  the  bell  at  the  side  entrance 
rang.   'He  Jieard  it  in  his  dream,  and  did  not  move 
at  first   Then  he  muttered,  and  they  heard  him  : 
"It's,  .Louise.  Almost  ten,  and  Louise  did  not  for- 


!He~went  in  a  sort  of  joy;  swiftly,  as  if  with  the 
opening  of  the  door  to  her,  he  would  find  his  life. 
It  would  come  glad,  clean,  unwearied.  He  opened 
the  door  from  the  hall,  her  name  on  his  lips. 

Louise  was  there.  Beyond  her  in  the  gloom,  a 
form,  a  shadow  flitting  to  skulk  by  her  side,  a  face 
staring  at  him,  white,  uncertain. 


CHAPTER  IX 

( 

HE  greeted  her  ;  he  asked  her  in,  and  yet  through 
its  casualness  there  was  fear  on  him  that  he 
could  not  explain.  The  oncoming  spring  rain  pat- 
tered the  boards;  beyond  the  open  door  the  swath- 
ing night  seemed  pressing  in  on  him,  and  this 
crouching  shape  by  Louise's  side  centered  the  men- 
ace of  the  dark  to  his  mind. 

"Louise/5  he  began,  striving  against  his  falter, 


"Be  still/'  she  said,  "this  man  wants  to  speak  to 
you.  He  came  to  me  at  the  office.  He  had  a  card 
you'd  given  him  —  your  name  and  address." 

"Yes?"  Corbett  answered  curiously.  He  could 
make  nothing  of  the  shape,  beyond  its  white  face  and 
staring  eyes.  And  as  he  stepped  closer,  and  as  the 
girl  was  lifting  her  veil  to  speak  again,  like  the  dash 
of  an  animal  the  man  was  past  her  and  in  the  hall. 
The  doctor  turned.  Rand  and  the  wife  could  see 
them,  her  husband's  profile  inquiringly  lifted,  and 
the  black  hulk  of  the  intruder.  The  blur  of  the  dim 
lights  was  on  them,  and  then  on  the  girl  as  she 
stepped  within,  closing  her  umbrella. 

"He  said  he  must  come  to  you/'  Louise  went  on 
-•  —  "he  could  not  wait  —  he  must  be  taken  to  you." 

135 


136  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

The  figure  straightened  with  a  sound  like  a  yelp ; 
it  seemed  that  of  a  shrunken  boy,  dressed  in  clothes 
grotesquely  large,  raising  a  hand  to  part  the  long 
straight  black  hair  from  his  brow  to  watch  the  doc- 
tor— a  thin  face,  grimed  but  with  a  pallor  that  noth- 
ing could  hide,  the  color  of  a  wall  of  whitewashed 
deadness  in  the  shade.  "Doctor,  my  friend — I 
come!" 

The  other  man  stared  back  at  the  brilliant  eyes 
fixing  him.  They  made  one  think  of  a  rat,  cornered, 
half -drowned  in  a  trap.  The  fugitive  went  on,  his 
lips  trembling  with  their  eagerness,  their  need — you 
would  have  said — their  joy,  their  trust  and  hope : 

"Doctor — I  come — my  friend.  Za  blow  iss 
struck !" 

He  had  an  inimitable  accent,  which,  with  his  agi- 
tation, made  his  speech  a  thing  not  to  be  understood 
on  first  hearing.  Louise,  indeed,  did  not  compre- 
hend. The  boy  fled  nearer  the  man,  his  thin  hand 
again  parting  his  hair,  his  shrill  voice  faster,  faster. 

"Novak,  Frietmann — all  tose  boys  say  I  must 
come  North — tey  gave  me  money  .  .  .  tey  sait 
you — you  would  save  me — Doctor,  my  friend!" 

With  a  gesture,  humbling,  eager,  enticing,  like  a 
woman  coming  to  a  man  after  she  has  been  beaten, 
he  reached  for  the  other's  hand,  coat,  anything  to 
touch. 

And  Ennisley  now  whirled  back  from  him  with 
his  long-pent  cry : 

"Karasac!     You — here — "  his  voice  went  to  a 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  137 

whisper —  "you  mean? — "  it  sank  lower,  a  mere 
tremor  of  articulation —  "you  were  one  of  them! 
You  threw  the  bomb?" 

The  air  of  the  little  hall  had  died  for  him.  He 
had  no  need  to  breathe — a  man  poised  on  an  abyss 
into  which  a  touch  would  cast  him. 

The  stranger  sped  under  his  upraised  hand;  he 
flung  back  the  coat,  showing  beneath  an  arm  rough- 
bandaged,  the  blood  dried,  streaked,  smeared. 

"Engel  wass  wit  me — the  comrade  from  New 
York.  He  told  us  liberty — a  blow  for  the  brother- 
hood— for  all  tose  for  vat  a  man  could  die !  Yess 
s — I — the  blow  iss  struck !" 

The  mill-hand  raised  himself  in  a  sort  of  pride 
• — his  thin  rat  face  lit.  His  acrid  whisper  came: 
"I  wass  not  afraid.  I  remember  all  you  told  me." 

The  professor  turned  away.  His  tense  eyes  fell 
upon  Louise  standing  quietly  by  the  door.  Now, 
with  a  resolute  authority,  as  if  to  close  out  the 
world  from  his  tragedy,  she  closed  it.  In  the  still- 
ness they  heard  the  rain  new  falling;  the  street 
lamps  afar  off  struck  through  the  little  diamond 
panes  of  dark  red  and  Prussian  blue  in  the  old  lead- 
ings about  the  entrance  and  made  livid  patches  on 
their  faces.  The  girl  locked  the  door;  she  turned 
to  them.  She  had,  by  one  of  those  instant  and  inex- 
plicable assumptions  of  the  clear  mind  in  crises,  taken 
the  mastery.  She  acted ;  she  drew  the  curtains,  she 
looked  up  with  a  keen  aggression  at  the  two  beyond 
in  the  living-room.  The  wife  had  risen;  she  was 


138          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

listening  curiously.  Rand  had  come  on,  he  was  at 
the  door,  his  hand  to  the  frame.  Without  speech, 
without  movement,  the  affair  in  the  hall  in  panto- 
mime had  surcharged  them  with  its  significance. 
And  all  this  Louise  at  once  divined — that  each  of 
the  five  within  voice  knew  as  if  a  prologue  had  been 
played  in  the  fifty  seconds  since  the  dynamiter  had 
entered — the  dim  light,  the  figures  without  motion. 

"It's  this,"  she  said,  as  though  to  sum  up  at  once 
a  problem  long  debated,  as  if  finality  had  put  it  past 
discussion.  "This  man  has  come  from  Rand's  mills 
to  Doctor  Ennisley — a  bomb-thrower  seeking  pro- 
tection." 

It  seemed  as  if,  with  the  words,  Ennisley  came 
from  his  stupor.  He  turned  to  Rand,  touching  his 
sleeve.  "You  see,. don't  you?"  His  voice  shook. 
"He's  a  mill-boy  whom  I  taught  in  the  settlement. 
I  tried  to  raise  him — help  him  .  .  .  and  now — " 
His  voice  broke —  "Good  God,  he  comes  to  me  I" 

"He  comes  to  you."  Rand's  voice  had  no  inquiry; 
it  but  stamped  the  logic  of  what  had  gone. 

The  Pole  lifted  his  coat,  eagerly  he  turned  from 
one  man  to  the  other,  as  if  surely  they  could  not 
doubt:  "I  am  hurt,  Doctor.  The  bomb  went  too 
soon.  But  I  got  away.  Tey  put  me  in  a  freight 
car  dat  night.  Novak,  he  say,  Chicago  .  .  .  the 
doctor,  he  shall  help  you — he  tell  us  all  so  much. 
And  all  last  night  I  went  about  and  my  arm  hurt. 
And  at  last  a  Pole  boy  he  tell  me — I  show  the  card 
you  gif  me." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  139 

The  thing  was  in  Louise's  fingers;  she  tore  it 
slowly  up.  The  Pole  was  going  on  with  his  curiously 
mechanical,  yet  eager  recital,  an  even  staccato,  as 
one  on  whom  the  power  rof  impress  could  stamp  no 
further,  as  one  beggared  by  plunging  events,  awhirl 
and  past  the  consciousness  of  surprise.  "I  could 
think  of  only  you.  To  come  to  you,  Doctor,  my 
friend — brother." 

Ennisley  had  turned  again  to  Rand.  "A  boy  of 
the  mills — an  ignorant  Polish  boy,  brought  up  in 
the  weave  rooms — a  night  worker.  Rand,  you  see, 
don't  you?  You  see  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
anarchy — nothing  .  .  .  and  that  it's  ruin  to  have 
him  here — even  to  have  it  known  that  I  taught  him. 
Ruin — the  wreck  of  everything!" 

"My  brother — that's  what  Engel  sait.  Liberty 
we  wass  to  fight  for  in  America.  You  told  us, 
Doctor,  it  wass  to  struggle.  We  wass  all  brothers !" 

The  scholar  fell  back  from  his  brother's  groping : 
"You  see  this?"  he  repeated —  "a  mill-boy — a  stu- 
dent at  the  settlement.  And  this,  now — he  must 
not  know  me — be  seen  with  me.  All  I'd  hoped  to  do 
— everything — "  His  whispered  appeal  sank  lower 
to  the  other,  "You  see,  don't  you?" 

Rand's  voice  had  the  music  of  a  bell :  "He's  come 
to  you— a  friend." 

"Yes,  I  know."  He  turned  away  wearily,  and 
then  started  as  if  from  the  shadowy  hall  mock- 
ing faces  listened — he  had  heard  the  slur  of  a  silk 
gown;  his  wife  had  come  and  was  in  the  door,  the 


140  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

light  subduing  her  September  richness,  the  burnish 
of  her  light  hair  merely  showing. 

"Corbett,"  she  said,  "is  this  all  true?" 

And  before  he  answered,  while  he  was  nodding 
his  assent,  Louise  spoke  quietly.  Before  the  wife 
who  had  dominated  her  always  with  her  complete 
assumption  of  place  and  tribute,  she  had  still  her 
calm. 

"You'd  better  go."  She  laid  her  hand  on  Ennis- 
ley's  sleeve,  the  touch  urging  him  toward  the  door 
of  his  study.  "You  can  do  nothing — you  can  not 
even  be  seen  with  him.  The  servants  may  come— 
the  nurse  or  Bullock — and  this  is  Rand's  house— 
a  justice  of  the  supreme  court.  This  anarchist  came 
here — to  see  you.  You  dare  not  be  seen  with  him !" 

And  as  he  stood,  blankly  staring  at  her,  she  pulled 
at  his  coat:  "Come." 

He  went  on  slowly.  Once  he  turned  and  cried 
back:  "Demetra!  You  see  I  knew  nothing — did 
nothing!  The  whisper  of  it  would  be  ruin  for  us!" 

"Come,"  the  secretary  repeated.  "He  shall  be 
taken  care  of,  but  you  must  not  be  seen." 

Rand's  narrowing  eyes  were  on  them  as  she  led 
him  off — you  would  have  said  a  broken  man.  As 
he  went  through  the  study  door,  she  closed  it  and 
stood,  facing  out,  as  if  a  guard  to  him,  hi£  dreams, 
his  life,  their  common  shrine. 

They  had  waited,  the  bomb-thrower  in  the  snug 
window-corner  by  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  hidden  by 
shade,  his  bright  eyes  seeking  to  comprehend ;  Rand 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  141 

in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  his  arms  folded ;  the  wife 
by  the  door  from  the  living-room,  watching,  startled. 

"A  mill-boy?"  she  said  clearly,  "to  my  husband?" 
She  came  on  nearer,  and  in  the  light  bent  curiously 
to  see  him.  And  in  the  shadow  rose  a  gasp,  then  a 
yell ;  he  had  leaped  out  in  a  frenzy,  and  was  before 
her. 

"Wife? — hees!"  He  stared  up  at  her,  his  coat 
half  off,  his  broken  arm  swaying  in  its  bandages.  "I 
know  you — he  sait — Demetra!  I  remember!  Look 
at  me — Karasac!" 

She  stood  unbelieving;  she  whispered  the  name 
and  stood  still. 

"Ludovic — Karasac  I"  the  Pole  went  on.  "Brother 
— and  you — tey  named  you — Demetra !" 

The  wife  stood  stunned.  She  did  not  even  notice 
Rand's  approach.  And  after  a  while,  her  eyes  shift- 
ing from  Karasac  to  him,  she  said  faintly :  "Ludo- 
vic. I  remember."  And  then  she  whispered,  as  if 
greedy  with  her  thoughts,  as  if  sucking  them  dry, 
trying  to  moisten  her  lips  the  while  in  her  obses- 
sion: 

"Ludovic    .    .    .    yes,  I  remember!" 

They  looked  on  each  other,  the  wife  in  her  superb 
strength — fed,  clothed,  against  the  backing  of  the 
room's  faded  richness;  the  brother,  lean,  white, 
harassed  with  broken  speech,  dirty,  alien — the  beast- 
man.  Suddenly  she  cried  out  in  Polish,  a  single 
word. 

He  answered.     She  went  on  rapidly,  the  tongue 


142  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

harsh  under  her  hot  delivery,  fretting  now  and  then 
under  a  forgotten  phrase,  and  then  lashing  on,  while 
he  at  times  tried  to  retort  to  her  outpouring.  He 
lifted  his  hand,  he  protested,  he  snarled  back,  his 
voice  raising,  until  Rand  stepped  to  them. 

"Speak  English,  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  and  Louise 
added  quietly:  "Do  not  raise  your  voices.  Be  still 
— and  speak  English." 

The  wife  turned  on  her;  her  anger  blazed.  Then 
she  went  on  to  Rand :  "Yes,  my  brother.  I  know 
now,  it  is  so !" 

The  Pole  retorted  bitterly,  and  then  broke  into 
his  baffling  English:  "Eight  years  we  been  from 
Galicia — in  the  mills,  a  contractor  brought  us." 

"The  mills?"  The  wife  shrank  before  him. 
"Here,  tell  me,  my  little  brothers  and  sisters  .  .  . 
Joseph^" 

"Five  years  ago  he  died." 

"Stanislaus?" 

"He  was  killed  in  the  machinery." 

She  spoke  more  faintly :   "Little  Marta  ?" 

The  brother  came  nearer ;  he  had  a  cunning  grin : 
"She  was  like  you — too  pretty.  She  wass  in  the 
mills  and  then  she  wass  fourteen  and  the  foreman, 
he — she  went  away  like  you  to  wear  clothes  and  dia- 
monds— rich,  I  suppose." 

She  reached  to  touch  his  arm;  she  lifted  the  bloody 
front  of  his  coat,  the  rags  of  his  shirt  beneath, 
blackened,  burned  with  powder,  soiled  with  wear- 
ing and  the  bandages.  "Joseph,"  she  muttered, 


"  I   know   you — Look   at    me  !  " 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  143 

"Stanislaus;  little  Marta!"  And  then  she  turned 
to  Rand,  but  as  if  unseeing:  "In  the  mills — your 
mills!  The  mills  Corbett  fought  for.  .  .  .  And 
I  lived  here!  O,  God!"  ^ 

The  anarchist  stared  from  her  to  the  man ;  then, 
exultantly,  he  leaped  before  him.  "Rand?  Thees 
Rand?  The  man  we  work  for?  And  you — I  see! 
He  tek  you  from  us,  Demetra;  he  mek  a  lady  to 
sing,  wear  fine  clothes — you!" 

"Be  still,"  Rand  said. 

But  the  other  woman  was  watching  them,  her 
eyes  widening.  The  wife  went  on  with  her  blind 
cry :  "Yes,  you  took  me,  Rand.  You  sent  me  from 
them,  children — babies,  almost,  then.  And  in  the 
mills  they  broke  them — your  mills !"  She  writhed  in 
a  sort  of  hate,  her  glance  from  him  to  the  other 
woman,  who  was  still  with  the  bigness  of  the  revela- 
tion. 

"Rand,"  the  mill-hand  cried,  "go — hang  me! 
Karasac — the  anarchist — he  kill — yass — hang  him!" 

Rand  turned  his  heavy  face  unmoved  from  one  to 
the  other:  "This  is  all  true?"  he  muttered,  his 
voice  in  no  surprise;  "Demetra,  this  is  true?" 

She  nodded.  "I  can  remember  his  face — my 
brother's  face — a  boy  of  eleven,  but  this  is  he, 
Ludovic!"  And  then  she  went  on  apathetically, 
now:  "In  this  house — my  brother,  an  anarchist — 
the  police  over  all  this  land  hunting  him  down. 
You  see,  don't  you?  I — Corbett — "  And  then 
her  eyes  followed  Rand's  own  in  a  brief  glance  at 


144  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

Louise  Hergov.  The  secretary  had  come  forward; 
pale,  resolute,  before  the  other  impassioned  woman. 
"You  know,  and  you  see,  don't  you?  My  husband 
— his  work — his  career — all — everything  is  on  this. 
He  must  not  know — Corbett  must  not  know!" 

"No,"  the  other  woman  retorted  seriously,  as  one 
deciding  and  as  one  against  whom  there  was  no  ap- 
peal: "We  shall  save  him  without  that!  He  must 
not  know!" 

Rand's  eyes  took  a  grim  smile:  "Ze  lady,"  he 
mocked,  "rich,  beautiful — sister  of  Karasac,  ze  an- 
archist!" And  then  he  went  on  gravely:  "It  is 
very  good.  But  you  dare  not  tell  truth,  eh  ?  Well, 
then — what  to  do  with  him — the  beast-brother?" 

"He  can  not  leave  this  house,"  the  secretary  said. 
"Free,  he'd  be  found  somewhere — he'd  talk." 

"Yes,"  the  wife  flashed  out  to  Rand,  "he  must 
be  hidden.  It's  ruin — you  see,  don't  you  ?" 

The  mill-hand  had  stood  from  them,  his  rat  eyes 
moving  here,  there,  his  mind  gathering  bit  by  bit 
from  his  understanding  of  their  speeches. 

"Hang  me!"  he  broke  out  defiantly.  "Karasac, 
brother  to  the  rich  woman.  I  know  what  they  all 
zay — yass,  hang  me !" 

"Be  still,"  Rand  threatened  with  arm  upraised. 

They  saw  that  from  the  sick-room  of  the  child 
Ennisley's  mother  had  come.  She  was  in  her  ill-kept 
old  wrapper  of  gray  calico;  faded  with  smeared 
flowers ;  she  had  a  glass  and  was  looking  along  the 
mantel  for  something  among  the  stuff  there. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  145 

The  wife  pointed  to  the  mother.  "You  see  what 
it  means,  don't  you?" 

Louise  turned  to  Rand's  watching  of  the  old 
woman.  "See  here — can't  you  hide  him  in  the  rooms 
you  once  had?  They  are  never  visited."  She  came 
to  him  in  swift  appeal.  "Yes !  Hide  him !" 

He  considered  her  gravely.  She  had  fought  with 
her  soul  to  hate  him  as  a  contamination.  But  now 
she  laid  a  finger  on  his  coat,  and  at  his  brief  smile, 
the  wife  started. 

"Now,  here,"  Louise  pleaded,  "Doctor  Ennisley — 
his  good  name,  his  work — you  can  save  him — you 
must.  You  can  hide  this  man — you  must !" 

And  the  wife  repeated  faintly,  standing  before 
them,  beggared,  shaken,  watching  the  beast-brother : 
"Yes,  he  must  not  be  seen — hide  him !" 

The  brother  stepped  to  her,  he  thrust  a  grimed, 
white  face  before  her,  leering,  imbruted:  "Deme- 
tra,"  he  began  and  went  on  in  their  common  tongue 
until  she  flashed  out  angrily,  and  he  snarled  back  in 
his  guttural  speech.  She  seemed  dazed,  and  Rand 
touched  the  brother's  arm. 

"Little  one,"  he  said,  with  some  good  nature, 
"you're  not  wanted,  that's  plain.  By  God,  whoever 
fashioned  you,  they're  anxious  enough  to  tuck  you 
out  of  sight !" 

"Be  still!"  the  wife  retorted.  "You  know  well 
enough  he  can't  be  seen." 

Louise  fixed  him  with  her  unflinching  blue  eyes. 
And  from  one  to  the  other  the  beast-brother  looked, 


146          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

staring,  uncertain.  Rand's  face  took  its  sardonic 
grimace;  he  seemed  enjoying  the  theatric  cruelty 
of  the  situation.  "Truth?"  he  said,  "who  dares  face 
it  ?  What  a  simple  thing !  To  be  kind,  to  be  honest, 
to  be  unf earing — why,  what  is  more  reasonable?  To 
give  children  what  brings  their  laughter,  and  men 
what  cleans  their  souls?  What  is  greater?  Is 
money?  Or  your  damned  reputations,  or  filled 
stomachs,  or  easy  beds?"  He  turned  to  the  mill-boy : 
"Beast-brother,"  he  said  in  a  rare  friendliness, 
"within  a  week  they  shall  perform  miracles  for  you! 
Come  with  me." 

The  women  saw  them  go  up  the  stairs,  their  foot- 
falls on  the  rugs  and  then  sharply  on  the  wood,  and 
then  die  on  the  corridor.  Then  they  faced  each 
other,  and  after  the  moment,  began  to  consider  the 
thing  in  more  reason. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  wife  said — after  a  brief  study  of  the  other 
woman,  as  one  debating  whether  to  brave  the 
thing  imperiously,  or  steal  back  stealthily,  covering 
the  defenseless  places  of  her  trail :  "Louise,  it  seems 
that  I  must  depend  on  you.  You  know,  now;  and 
it  would  be  useless  to  do  anything  but  be  frank  with 
you."  And  she  went  on,  wondering  if  she  appeared 
shaken  to  the  other's  eyes:  "It's  like  a  blow  had 
fallen  on  us  from  the  hand  of  God!" 

"I  don't  think  it  is  so  bad,"  the  secretary  an- 
swered. She  spoke  clearly,  with  the  gravity  of  the 
sure.  "We  can  keep  the  matter  still  somehow.  We 
can  save  him  for  his  work — nothing  else  is  import- 
ant." 

"I  did  not  mean  Corbett — my  husband — "  she 
was  confused  before  this  directness.  "I  told  you 
much — that  man,  Rand,  here.  Surely  you  will 
understand.  You've  doubted  me.  I  suppose  all 
women  doubt  me.  Well — "  she  went  on,  gathering 
her  old  command  against  the  accusation  of  the 
other's  silence —  "it's  of  no  importance,  perhaps, 
but  we  are  two  foreign  women  here — we  have  come 
up  different  ways  to  what  we've  got  in  this  America. 

147 


148  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

We  ought  to  know  each  other — what  we  were  to 
begin  with  and  what  we've  fought  to.  And  then 
you'd  understand  what  it  could  mean  to  me  .  .  . 
my  brother  coming  on  me,  a  mill-hand — his  dirt, 
his  ignorance — a  criminal — a  beast.  And  Rand — 
Herford  Rand — I'd  have  to  go  back  a  long  way  to 
tell  you  all." 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  the  girl,  "of  quite  another 
thing.  Doctor  Ennisley — his  place  before  the 
world — his  good  name,  his  work  for  others  far 
beyond  any  such — problem."  She  hesitated,  feel- 
ing again  her  old  want  of  personality  before  the 
wife :  "That  is  the  only  thing/'  she  went  on  reso- 
lutely. "I  am  not  concerned  with  anything  else  what- 
ever." 

"It's  good  of  you,"  the  wife  hurried  on,  "I  might 
have  known,  Louise.  It's  like  you  to  think  only  of 
that — his  work — his  position.  Yes,  there's  much 
depends  on  you." 

But  there  lay  still  between  them  unspoken,  the  dis- 
sembling fear  of  women,  the  piteous  loneliness  in 
which  they  must  go  unappeased,  watching  each  what 
the  other  possesses,  or  what  they  may  despoil  and 
flaunt  to  the  beaten. 

While  they  stood  thus,  returning  a  sort  of  com- 
monplace murmur  of  reassurance  to  each  other, 
Rand  came  with  that  peculiar  swing  and  shift 
of  his  uncouth  body  that  linked  him  back  to  the 
brutes  which  never  grow  gross  enough  to  lose  their 
dangerous  primal  quickness.  He  had  been  gone  so 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  149 

short  a  time  that  the  wife  exclaimed  in  apprehen- 
sion: 

"Why,  you? — what  have  you  done  with  him?" 

"My  rooms.  They  were  locked.  I  went  to  Bul- 
lock and  demanded  the  keys.  Eh  ? — it  was  a  strange 
sight — three  apartments,  locked,  the  blinds  drawn, 
the  very  bed  unstirred,  papers  scattered  about  the 
tables — the  dust  heaped  over  everything.  It  was  a 
strange  hate  that  made  the  man  do  that,  to  forbid 
a  hand  to  touch  them  after  he  drove  his  cub  of  a 
preacher  away." 

The  girl  had  looked  at  him  with  her  usual  intent. 
"We'd  better  think  of  something  else.  Here,  under 
Judge  Rand's  roof,  is  this  boy — hunted — " 

"I  think,"  retorted  Rand,  "he  came  for  shelter 
— hungry,  wounded,  beaten."  He  turned  to  Demetra 
with  his  outthrust  chin :  "A  brother.  Yours — and 
Ennisley's." 

"He's  not,"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  freshly  aroused 
savagery.  "What  have  we  to  do  with  him — a  mill- 
boy,  ignorant — an  animal — a  fanatic — a  criminal — 
a  hunted  beast?" 

"A  hunted  beast — your  brother." 

She  was  stung,  it  seemed,  by  a  brooding  tender- 
ness in  his  voice — an  actor's  trick  to  madden  and 
outrage.  "Will  you  be  sane  for  once?"  she  cried.  "I 
have  waited,  fought,  longed  for  peace — rest.  To  win 
something — hold  something!  I  came  here,  married, 
to  sink  down  in  the  quiet  of  a  home,  forgetting  ev- 
erything, asking  nothing — and  now — now — this — " 


ISO          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"There  comes  to  you,  a  brother.  A  hunted  boy 
back  to  his  friend,  the  prophet  of  the  dawning 
brotherhood  of  man.  Eh? — I  think  Ennisley  called 
it  that?" 

He  turned  with  his  leer  to  Louise  Hergov,  pale, 
wide-eyed,  watchful  beyond  the  wife.  "The  brother- 
hood, I  think  he  teaches?" 

"Why  will  you  torture  her?"  The  secretary  did 
not  flinch  from  him.  "You  know  well  enough  it  is 
the  end  of  things  if  it's  known  he's  married  to  the 
sister  of  Karasac,  who  threw  the  bomb.  You  know 
the  thing  has  shocked  the  country — that  all  the 
nation's  wratching  him.  Your  father — a  word  from 
him  alone — would  ruin  the  work  of  his  life." 

"Truth?"  he  grimaced.  "Can  that  ruin?  What's 
greater  ?" 

"Will  you  be  a  man  for  once?"  the  wife  whipped 
out.  "Our  brother  ?  Then  he's  yours.  Your  mills 
made  him.  My  little  brothers  and  sisters,  aliens, 
brought  here  by  a  contractor — flung  into  your  mills, 
crushed,  degraded — Ludovic  an  anarchist!  Well, 
who  made  him  one?" 

Rand  leaned  on  one  foot  with  a  hand  upraised, 
two  fingers  crossed,  on  his  face  the  air  of  a  connois- 
seur to  whom  had  been  propounded  a  delicate  prob- 
lem of  virtuosity:  "Let  us  think.  Here  are  the 
mills ;  here  your  husband's  teachings ;  here  the  law ; 
here  society.  It  is  a  pretty  study — we  will  hold  the 
beast-brother  up  and  look  clearly  at  him.  I  could 
dilate  on  it  for  hours — who  made  the  beast?" 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  151 

She  stared  at  him  in  horror.  And  while  he  stood 
in  his  pose  before  them,  the  study  door  opened  and 
Corbett  came  out.  He  had  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and 
nearer,  he  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thick  and 
curly  hair  with  a  nervous,  decided  manner. 

"You  put  him  away?"  he  began;  "well,  I  have 
thought  the  matter  out.  There'll  be  a  chance,  if 
we  can  keep  him  hid  a  day  or  two,  to  dress  him 
differently,  disguise  him  somehow,  and  then  give 
him  enough  money  to  keep  still  and  get  him  off 
somewhere  West."  He  finished  and  looked  about 
on  their  silence.  "Just  to  keep  the  boy  hidden  a  day 
or  so  and  then  let  him  get  away." 

"I  believe,"  answered  Rand  gravely,  "he  came  to 
you  for  shelter — that  he  claimed  you  for  a  friend 
— that  on  you  rests  a  life — let  us  say,  a  soul." 

Ennisley  threw  up  his  hands :  "Rand,  be  serious. 
If  he's  proved  to  be  a  pupil  of  mine,  it's  the  end.  I'm 
in  a  delicate  position,  man.  If  your  father  turned  on 
me  I'd  have  to  leave  the  university,  the  child  labor 
commission — a  word  from  that  crazed  mill-boy 
breaks  down  everything."  He  turned  to  Rand 
in  that  ever-springing  hope  that  nothing  could  daunt 
in  him :  "I  may  have  been  radical — hasty  in  speech 
— but  I  saw  the  newer  social  justice,  the  dawn  of 
to-morrow.  I  never  encouraged  anarchy — violence 
— nothing!" 

"Then,  why  fear  ?  Fear  is  a  thing  to  cackle  at — 
it  is  a  whip  over  the  backs  of  fools.  Why  need  a 
man  crawl  about  under  it?" 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

They  looked  at  him  again;  the  wife's  lips  moved 
presently.  She  went  to  Corbett's  side.  "That's  like 
him — always  the  actor — the  poseur!  Corbett,  you're 
ghastly !  This  thing  is  killing  you." 

He  turned  on  her  with  swift  gratefulness,  his  arm 
went  about  her  in  his  eager  pathos  at  each  human 
note  he  could  ever  strike  in  this  woman  whom  he 
never  understood.  "Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "it's  for 
you — you  and  my  little  Tad.  A  man  has  to 
come  back  to  those  things  after  all — his  wife  and 
child  and  home.  Rand — what  could  he  know  ?  When 
a  man's  cornered  he  has  to  go  back  to  the  deeps  of 
life — the  very  simple  things.  .  .  .  My  boy — how 
is  he,  Demetra  ?  I  want  to  see  him — my  boy." 

"He's  restless,  I  think.  Your  mother  was  up  half 
an  hour  ago  with  him.  Ellen's  asleep." 

"I  wish  you'd  get  him,"  the  father  muttered.  "I 
suppose  I'm  confused  by  all  this.  I — I'd  like  to  sit 
down  quietly  with  you,  Demetra,  and  my  boy,  and 
think  it  out  and  find  my  way."  He  caught  at  her  in 
fervor.  "Yes,  I'm  that  kind — I  have  to  go  back  to 
the  simple  things,  dear  heart."  And  he  held  her 
close,  staring  after  Rand,  who  was  departing  with 
his  usual  abruptness. 

When  the  man  had  gone,  the  girl,  her  pale  face 
averted,  seemed  not  to  notice  their  caresses.  "Dear 
heart,"  Corbett  went  on,  "it  touches  me  so — your 
suffering — for  me!  Nothing  could  matter  if  you 
cared,  as  I've  hoped  you'd  care !" 

For  never  had  she  seemed  moved  before  by  his 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  153 

endearments.  Yes,  he  had  gone  back  to  where  the 
common  strength  of  men  comes,  loving  this  woman 
with  a  persistent  ideality.  He  was  living  a  great 
moment  and  he  knew  it  as  only  the  sensitive  soul 
may  realize  its  crises.  She  seemed  touched  by  his 
caress,  and  the  world  of  his  fighting  hopes  and  fail- 
ures fell  from  him  in  this  splendor. 

Then  suddenly  the  wife  flung  herself  from  him 
and  left  the  room  for  the  lame  child's  chamber.  He 
stood  staring  after,  reaching  his  hands  out  in  un- 
thinking joy,  and  then  his  eyes  fell  on  Louise  by  the 
study  door.  He  was  confused  by  his  rapture ;  then 
it  seemed  the  secretary  was  looking  at  him  with  a 
repression,  a  measuring  second  thought,  a  new  light. 
The  widening  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  chill  him,  as  if, 
for  the  first  time,  he  had  failed  in  something;  he 
stumbled  in  some  pit  of  disloyalty.  He  would  have 
spoken  as  he  went  after  his  wife,  but  the  girl  pointed 
and  said  merely :  "Go !"  and  he  went  as  if  dismissed. 

But  through  the  night  he  could  not  forget  Louise's 
look ;  as  though  he  had  lived  a  lie,  or  was  now  fooled 
by  a  lie,  or  perhaps  both.  And  from  some  height 
she  looked  down  upon  him  clearly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  day  that  came  was  hatmted  for  the  wife. 
She  went  at  nightfall  from  her  secluded  apart- 
ments in  the  wing  of  the  house  to  the  front  of  the 
great  hall  with  its  severe  windows  set  about  with 
little  leaded  panes,  waiting,  waiting,  she  knew  not 
for  what.  About  the  day  there  was  the  ceaseless 
expectance,  the  disdain  of  death  to  the  destinies  of 
the  living — it  sheltered  its  tragedies  with  an  evil 
decorum. 

The  place  had  ever  oppressed  her ;  she  rarely  came 
this  far,  and  she  seldom  met  Stephen  Rand,  for  his 
eccentric  seclusion  did  not  invite  approach.  His 
dislike  of  lights,  of  change,  the  conforming  of  the 
aged  servants,  the  memories  of  the  closed  rooms, 
lent  each  to  the  sinister  aspect  of  the  house,  and 
Demetra,  with  her  hatred  of  discomfort,  avoided  it. 
But  here,  to-night,  she  came  upon  the  master,  his 
hard  face,  like  a  Roman  coin,  age-stained,  turned 
to  her.  She  murmured  of  some  errand  to  the  house- 
keeper and  of  the  lights. 

"There  are  none  beyond  this  hall,"  he  said  curtly, 
"none  live  beyond." 

154 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  155 

"Yes,"  she  said  steadily,  "one  could  not  live  here 
and  not  feel  that." 

"Ghosts  ?"  He  smiled,  the  hard  lips  tightening — 
"We  all  see  them  at  times." 

The  wife  stirred  with  an  unwonted  pity  for  him: 
"You've  suffered — one  can  feel  that,  too." 

"I  have  put  away  the  capacity.  Mrs.  Ennisley,  I 
have  been  a  hard  man.  Your  husband,  the  mill 
superintendents,  my  associates  in  business  and  on 
the  bench  can  not  say  they  have  seen  much  more. 
Life  has  been  a  truce  with  me — no  more." 

She  was  still  in  her  surprise  before  this  word  from 
the  Sphinx ;  in  the  three  years  of  their  acquaintance, 
since  Corbett  had  brought  her  to  his  benefactor, 
,  Stephen  had  not  spoken  so  far.  She  went  on  again 
in  her  feeling  of  compassion:  "Judge  Rand,  you 
have  been  kindness  itself — tolerance — patience — to 
us — my  husband's  affairs.  We've  been  grateful." 

"Of  Doctor  Ennisley's  schemes?  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  them.  They  have  been  unfortunate  enough, 
but  I  was  not  thinking  of  them.  There  has  come 
here  a  man  whose  history  you  know  something  of, 
doubtless.  I  am  a  hard  man,  I  may  have  been  amiss 
— we  both  have  a  Scotch  streak  of  Calvinistic  stub- 
bornness in  us,  but  a  fallen  preacher  is  not  to  be 
endured.  Madam,  he  made  me  lose  my  faith  in 
God.  I  have  had  but  one  hate  in  my  life  and  that 
was  to  my  son." 

She  was  stilled ;  ever  since  Rand's  coming  she  had 
dissembled  her  insecurity ;  what  the  father  knew  of 


156          MY   BROTHER'S  ^KEEPER 

his  early  life  was  to  her  a  doubt.  Now  he  went  on : 
"He  picked  a  woman  from  the  streets  of  Vienna  or 
London — I  do  not  know  who  or  where.  I  know 
only  what  the  papers  damned  him  with,  and  how  he 
outraged  the  cloth  when  he  was  questioned.  But — " 
the  old  man  went  on  pithily:  "he  may  have  loved 
her." 

"Loved  her?"  the  wife  whispered.  "No — he 
loved  nothing!" 

"Eh?"  Stephen  peered  at  her.  "He  was  of  hot 
blood — it  was  for  his  dying  mother's  request  I 
forced  him  to  the  ministry.  I  say,  I  may  have  been 
amiss  there.  But,  however  that,  here  he  is  to-day,  a 
drifter,  boasting  that  he's  been  sailor,  tramp — the 
braggart,  unredeeming — claiming  a  right  of  me.  Eh, 
well — it  seems  to  take  me  long  to  get  at  my  point. 
I'm  an  old  man  and  breaking  fast.  There'll  be  need 
of  strong  hands  for  my  affairs  and  I  have  wanted  to 
say:  'Lad,  there's  a  place  for  you  here — there's 
work  for  you  .  .  .  I  will  take  you  back.'  And"  I 
see  nothing  but  the  swaggering  impostor  in  him.  I 
am  feeling  through  the  dark — if  he  would  come  a 
man — a  man — to  me — "she  caught  the  trouble  in  his 
voice  at  last —  "I  believe,  madam,  you  can  help  me." 

He  had  held  a  hand  to  her ;  she  saw  him  suddenly 
anew — a  piteous  figure,  small,  shrunk,  bent  in  appeal 
— she  knew  how  the  thing  had  crushed  him  now. 
In  an  impulse  she  reached  to  his  cold  thin  fingers ; 
she  heard  the  break  of  a  voice — a  father's  voice  and 
none  of  the  justice. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  157 

"We  can  draw  a  human  soul  back  from  the  pit/' 
he  went  on,  "I  think  we  can,  my  dear.  I'd  rather 
die  forgetting  that  I  had  cursed  my  own.  I  could 
pray  to  God  again.  Eh?  I  think  you  are  one  of 
these  painfully  scientific  moderns  as  to  faith — it 
seems  there  is  an  end  to  authority,  but  you  can 
understand  that  in  me — that  I  could  pray  once  more, 
if  I  could  undo  this?" 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  murmured,  confused  the 
more  as  to  his  purpose. 

"I've  asked  him  back.  John  Bride  will  bring  him 
Thursday  to  dine.  And  God  help  me,  I  do  not  know 
how  to  face  him.  I  want  you  there — you  and  the 
doctor.  I  do  not  want  any  sick  sentiment  of  a 
reconciliation.  I  had  thought  that  in  a  company  he 
might  be  received  without  outrage,  or  scene — Eh? 
Can  you  see — I  wish  to  study  the  man — to  accept 
him  without  surrender.  Can  you  understand  that?" 

"Yes,  and  I  shall  come.  And  if  I  can  help — the 
least  thing — the  most  trifling  thing  one  can  do — " 

He  broke  in  on  her  with  his  smile  that  recalled  the 
son's  own : 

"You  are  the  first  woman  that  I  have  appealed 
to  for  anything  in  quite  forty  years." 

And  then,  with  his  curt  and  yet  considerate  man- 
ner of  dismissal,  he  left  her  with  that  strange  sense 
still  on  her  that  she  had  seen  the  hard  man's  soul 
opened  to  its  depths.  For  the  moment  she  had 
forgotten  the  coming  of  Karasac;  that  in  Stephen's 
fingers  lay  all  that  she  had  won  to.  She  saw  nothing 


158          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

but  an  old  man,  decrepit,  clinging  wretchedly  to 
some  impossible  hope,  hurrying  from  her  to  cover 
his  beggared  life. 

In  her  rooms  she  came  upon  two  men  watching 
each  other  across  the  table,  the  glow  of  the  light 
between — her  husband  and  Rand,  the  younger.  The 
wife's  sense  of  danger,  vague,  yet  acute,  rose  at 
Rand's  enigmatic  face,  at  Corbett's  studied  quiet. 
He  rose  to  receive  her.  Rand,  sunk  as  usual,  his 
huge  form  filling  the  chair,  nodded  with  slow  indif- 
ference. 

And  the  question  that  for  twenty  hours  had 
burned  in  her  brain  came  unconsciously  to  her  lips : 
"He— still  here?" 

"I  have  the  beast  locked  in  the  rooms.  He  has 
eaten  and  drunk — he  is  washed  and  his  arm  attended 
to." 

"The  servants?"  she  whispered,  for  the  thing 
brought  the  leap  of  panic  to  her.  "Food — you  did 
not  ask  them  for  it?" 

"I  brought  it  from  John  Bride's.  God  help  me — 
for  the  second  time  in  twenty  years  I  lied  .  .  . 
or  did  I  lie?  I  said  it  was  to  feed  a  dog.  Eh — 
brother?  The  beast-brother — a  mad  dog  cornered." 

She  shivered.  He  went  on  to  her  and  to  Corbett's 
staring  silence :  "You  should  have  seen  him  eat — a 
dog,  starved  in  the  highway.  He  gulped  it  in  a  cor- 
ner, watching  me  with  his  eyes  that  can  hate  as  a 
hunted  beast  ought  to  hate.  Eh? — I  stayed  an 
hour  with  him — watching.  I  fed  him  and  at  the  end, 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  159 

when  I  went  to  take  the  plate  away,  with  some  sort 
of  a  snarl  he  struck  me." 

"Struck  you !  Why  that,  Rand  ?"  Corbett's  voice 
was  wondering. 

"I  hardly  know.  I  merely  put  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  I  called  him  brother — little  beast-brother 
...  he  whirled  and  struck.  See  here?" 

They  saw  now  his  temple  bruised. 

"Struck  you?"  the  wife  breathed  hard:  "You, 
a  man  three  times  his  size.  You — he  struck- — and 
you?" 

"I  went  to  fetch  him  water.  He  was  starved  for 
it.  It  seems  it  is  turned  off  in  that  part  of  the 
house." 

"Struck  you?"  she  whispered.  "He  must  have 
feared!" 

"Fear?  Yes — what  else  is  left  him  except  fear 
and  hate?" 

She  could  not  sit  before  him;  she  rose  to  walk 
the  room. 

And  after  a  while,  because  Corbett  did  not  speak, 
and  to  live  before  Rand's  silence  was  more  intoler- 
able than  his  talking,  she  went  on  hurriedly :  "I  can 
see  that.  That  was  like  you — a  play,  a  little  drama 
you  could  act  out — to  have  him  strike  you,  and  you 
go  fetch  water  for  him  patiently.  That  was  like  you 
— to  stand  before  him  with  a  smile — with  your  con- 
ceit that  you  were  beyond  it  all !" 

"It  was,  in  fact,  admirable.  It  was  complete 
and  wholly  done.  The  beast  was  dumb  after  that 


160  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

— in  horror  at  me.  He  has  not  soul  enough  to  see 
there  was  an  approach  to  greatness  in  it.  He  strikes 
me;  I  smile — I  bring  him  water — I  say,  kindlier 
than  before :  Tittle  brother!'  " 

The  wife  flashed  out:  "You  call  it  great!  You 
say  it's  fine — you!" 

"There  may  be  finer  things  than  to  put  your  hand 
out  to  a  brother  in  the  dark,  hated,  trapped,  to  bring 
him  water  and  to  bind  his  wounds,  but  I  do  not  know 
of  them.  Think  of  it  now:  He  curses  me — I  smile. 
He  strikes  me,  and  I  say,  more  gently:  'Little 
brother !'  I  put  a  hand  out  to  caress  his  wound.  Eh  ? 
— you  should  have  seen  him  then,  sit  back,  his  great 
round  eyes  staring !" 

The  doctor  muttered,  rose  and  walked  the  room's 
length  to  look  from  the  window.  His  wife  turned 
burning  eyes  upon  the  outcast. 

"Rand,  my  husband's  been  at  a  man's  work,  too. 
He's  given  himself  to  the  children  in  your  mills." 

"I  understand  he's  done  that  arch-crime  in  Amer- 
ica— he's  hurt  dividends." 

She  turned  away.  "Enough  of  this.  Here's  this 
boy — he  must  be  got  away." 

"Away?  he's  just  come!  Running  with  his  little 
patter  of  liberty,  fraternity — brotherhood — back  to 
the  hand  that  lifted  him !"  He  came  nearer,  his  deep 
voice  to  her  ear  alone,  his  smile  upon  her:  "A 
brother!" 

"Be  still,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  on  Corbett  up 
the  room,  "you  shall  not  tell  him  that !" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  161 

He  went  on,  ignoring  her,  his  eyes,  too,  on  the 
doctor.  "Do  you  call  him  brother?" 

"I  tell  you  stop !"  the  wife  cried,  and  the  husband 
turned  in  amazement.  $ 

"Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "what's  this — how  does  it 
move  you  so?" 

"Ah,  well !"  she  breathed,  "Rand  scourges  one  so ! 
And  Rand's  mills  made  the  boy  what  he  is,  as  God 
lives,  they  did!  Yes,  you — and  all  America!" 

They  faced  her  wonderingly,  she  who  had  been 
the  clean  cat  by  the  fire.  And  from  this  miracle, 
Corbett  turned  to  Rand.  "I  see,"  he  muttered,  "you 
mean  for  me  to  admit  the  boy — accept  him — protect 
him."  He  sighed :  "That's  like  you,  mere  madness." 

"You've  taught,  I  think,"  Rand  answered,  "a 
brotherhood  to  come — your  socialism.  Well,  then, 
where  is  its  soul  to  be?  Are  we  machines  to  grind 
and  grind,  and  have  our  lives  drop  off  behind  us, 
tied  and  labeled?  Eh — socialism?  Where  are  its 
sacrifices  ?  You  can't  expect  men  to  die  for  a  sack 
of  potatoes !" 

The  teacher  of  the  revolution  turned  away.  From 
the  window  he  saw  the  black  lake,  the  streak  of 
light  over  the  city.  Beyond,  the  broad  land  ran  to 
the  seas ;  it  seemed  that  as  a  light  above  its  majestic 
capitol,  its  destiny  the  hope  of  the  beaten  and  the 
failed,  his  own  life  hung;  the  hope  of  it  the  hope  of 
myriads  to  be.  He  turned  at  last  from  his  vision ; 
he  came  back  to  his  power  of  reserve,  the  bigness 
of  his  imagined  and  indispensable  place.  "You  are 


1 62  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

the  man  who  makes  things  hopeless,"  he  said.  "You 
are  the  spirit  of  the  individualist,  the  outlaw,  the 
survival — you  belong  back  in  another  age.  Yes,  you 
are  the  man  who  makes  for  despair,  who  sits  ruthless 
and  unmoving — yes,  a  beast  across  the  human  road. 
Thank  God  that  you  can  not  hinder  in  the  end — that 
the  procession  will  crush  you,  throw  you  aside  in  the 
end!" 

"But  now  I  live.  It  is  brief  and  sweet,  but  I  live." 
He  rose  and  appeared  about  to  go,  seeking  for  his 
gray  and  battered  hat,  turning  his  rough  shirt  collar 
about  his  neck.  And,  as  in  his  way,  without  cere- 
mony or  dismissal,  he  was  about  to  leave  the  door, 
the  wife  came  swiftly  to  him. 

"This — Karasac?"  she  said.  "You  leave  him 
there  alone?  He — is  it  quite  safe?" 

"For  him?" 

"For  him?  I  meant — if  he  should  be  captured — 
betrayed — he'd  tell!" 

"I  think  he  would,"  Rand  said  gravely.  "It 
would  be  most  human." 

She  tried  to  still  her  fear,  to  steady  her  voice. 

"Yes,  be  the  actor — the  preacher — the  fool !  Rand, 
it's  like  you.  You  know  we're  cornered — trapped !" 

He  bent  to  look  in  her  eyes :  "Let  me  see.  Can 
a  woman  be  great  enough  for  this  ?  Sometimes  I've 
wondered  at  you,  Demetra !" 

The  husband  started  sharply ;  the  other  man  was 
near  the  door. 

"Demetra!"  Ennisley  cried.   "What's  this?" 


• 


"  Can  a  woman  be  great  enough  for  this  ?  " 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  163 

In  the  doorway  Rand  turned.  They  saw  his  gray 
priest's  face  twitch  with  humor  or  disdain:  "I 
think,"  he  muttered,  "the  temple  is  still  empty." 

Corbett  watched  him  go,  bewildered.  "What  does 
he  mean?  He  used  your  name,  Demetra?  Is  he 
crazy  ?" 

"O,  well !  It's  his  actor's  way — his  love  of  posing. 
He's  always  been  like  that." 

" Ahvays  ?  Demetra,  how  could  you  know  ?" 

"I've  heard  of  the  man."  She  went  on,  com- 
posedly now :  "Can't  you  understand  ?" 

The  doctor  sat  down,  discouraged.  "I  can't  make 
the  man  out." 

"Ah,  well — "  she  came  to  him  impetuously  now, 
with  a  resolute  endeavor  to  change  their  thought. 
"Come,  Corbett,  how  are  things  at  the  university 
— or — the  mills — anything?"  she  went  on  irrele- 
vantly. 

"Dear,  it's  bad.  Hayes  is  still  here  trying  to 
poison  the  judge's  mind  against  me — to  destroy  my 
influence  for  the  mill  reforms.  And  this  boy  here 
— this  pupil  of  mine."  He  broke  off;  he  was  again 
a  man  haunted.  He  looked  at  her  and  cried  out: 
"Demetra,  are  you  in  a  trance?  Good  God,  look 
at  me!"  he  went  to  shake  her  arm;  she  came  from 
her  stupor :  "Dear,"  he  went  on,  laughing  strangely, 
"what  was  the  matter?  Don't  be  so  still." 

"Still?"  She  started.  "Was  I?"  And  she  tried  to 
smile,  but  it  seemed  more  a  twist  of  some  pity  for 
them  both.  "I  was  thinking !" 


164          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Well,  you'd  better  not,  dear.  There'll  be  a  way. 
I  know  you  feel  the  thing.  I  myself  have  gone  about 
all  day  in  a  dream.  That  boy  hidden  here — and  my 
whole  life  hung  by  a  straw.  You — you  haven't 
seen  him,  Demetra?" 

She  was  on  him  quickly,  as  if  he  had  stumbled  on 
the  truth.  "Seen  him?  No,  Corbett,  we'd  better 
not  see  him — not  at  all." 

"Yes.  It  would  be  useless — dangerous.  He's 
crazy — an  anarchist,  a  murderer — no  one  knows 
what  he  would  do  if  I  failed  to  accept  him." 

"That's  true,"  she  watched  him,  wondering  what 
faint  ideal  of  his  manhood  seemed  now  fainter, 
whitening  to  nothing.  "O,  no,"  she  roused  up,  "we 
can't  see  him — it  would  do  no  good — none !" 

But  with  the  thing  between  them  they  sat  silent 
as  one  will  sit  in  the  wreck  of  a  house  after  a  storm, 
looking  about  at  the  semblance  of  familiar  objects 
that  can  not  again  be  made  to  stand  upright,  to  have 
office,  to  give  their  old  solace  of  association.  "Let 
him  be,"  the  man  said  at  last.  "Let  Rand  go  on 
with  him.  Yes,  if  it  pleases  him — this  hollow  great- 
ness for  the  brother,  as  he  calls  him — the  beast- 
brother." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  after  him;  "brother,"  and  she 
tried  to  say  the  word  again,  but  her  lips  seemed 
dry. 

"I  saw  the  evening  papers,"  Corbett  went  on; 
"they  were  still  filled  with  it — the  children's  war, 
one  called  it.  And  the  Neivs  said  that  the  principal 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  165 

dynamiter  was  supposed  to  have  reached  Chicago." 
He  took  the  hand  from  her  lap  and  caressed  it. 
"And  they'd  hang  him  if  they  caught  him — the 
proof  is  clear  against  this  one — the  Polish  boy, 
Karasac." 

"And  he's  here,"  she  muttered,  "Karasac — he 
came  to  you — wounded — starving — Rand  said,  a  rat. 
And  Rand,  he  knows — " 

"Demetra,"  he  cried,  "what  do  you  mean?  Your 
eyes  so  strange!" 

She  forced  a  laugh:  "O,  nothing — I'm  silly.  Of 
course  we  can't  acknowledge  him — see  him.  Of 
course  not !  It  would  compromise  you  for  ever !" 

"Yes.  And  I'm  fighting  the  great  fight,  Demetra, 
not  only  for  you  and  Tad,  but  beyond — the  great 
love  of  the  world,  Demetra — the  coming  brother- 
hood of  men,  some  day,  beyond  us  all!" 

"I've  heard  so  much  of  it,"  she  answered  wearily. 

"And  you'll  never  quite  understand,  dear."  He 
got  up  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  telephoned 
Louise  to  come  this  evening.  I  thought  I'd  pitch 
into  work  and  try  to  forget.  We're  getting  that 
address  in  shape  which  I'm  going  to  deliver  before 
the  Social  Equality  Club — just  an  after-dinner  thing, 
but  I  want  it  big.  There'll  be  some  men  there  I 
want  to  reach.  I  called  it  The  Brother  Keeper." 

"Yes — yes — "  she  answered,  again  in  her  indiffer- 
ence. "Go  on— work — "  Then  she  started :  "There's 
Louise  now — on  the  veranda.  Go,  let  her  in." 

"Let  her  in?    Why?"  he  asked  curiously. 


166          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"She — you  need  her,  Corbett." 

While  he  looked  at  his  wife,  still  amazed,  the 
maid  had  let  Miss  Hergov  into  the  hall.  She  went  to 
the  study  opposite  the  open  door  of  the  living-room. 
The  man  and  wife  saw  her  by  the  familiar  desk,  her 
blue,  close-fitting  gown  about  her  slender  form,  a 
form  yet  full,  vibrant,  a  steel  in  spring;  her  coarse 
black  hair  suggesting  a  race  close  to  some  primal 
untaint  of  life.  The  wife's  glance  snapped  to  his. 
He  was  watching  the  girl  and  his  own  trouble  seemed 
to  have  lightened. 

"Yes,"  he  began,  "she's  so  clear,  so  sane.  A 
woman  like  that  can  do  so  much — "  his  hand  went  to 
his  tired  eyes —  "she  seems  to  feel  in  advance  for 
me — she  can  hold  a  man  to  his  best — his  ideals — 
his  greatness." 

The  wife  endured  patiently — she  knew  the  rote 
of  this;  knew,  too,  its  honesty. 

"To  be  great,  Carbett?  I  suppose  a  woman  can 
send  a  man  on  to  that,  or  drag  him  down — is  that 
it  ?  She  can  be  clean,  warm,  a  mere  weight  on  him — 
a  cat  content  to  sit  by  the  fire,  too — can't  she?" 

"What  ?"  he  put  in  quickly.  "Rand  said  something 
like  that — he  mocks  at  all  women.  He  has  made 
even  Louise  hate  him  in  the  three  days  he's  been 
here—" 

"Has  he?  How  do  you  know — "  she  clutched  his 
arm_  -has  he?" 

"O,  let's  be  through  with  Rand,"  the  husband 
cried;  "everything  comes  back  to  him — his  spirit  sits 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  167 

on  this  house  and  every  one  in  it.  I'm  sick  with  it 
all.  The  way  he's  slipped  in  on  this  matter — his 
power  over  us.  And  it's  on  you,  Demetra — you're 
sick  with  it — he's  moved  you  so  with  his  eternal 
playing  and  his  gibing." 

"Yes,  he  has/5  she  said  apathetically;  but  she 
walked  away  from  him,  stinging  her  hands  one  upon 
the  other  with  cruel  little  beats,  her  eyes  hard. 
Yes,  he  was  playing  on  her  and  beyond  the  husband's 
power  to  fathom — the  range  of  her  soul,  its  depths 
and  greatnesses,  before  untouched — her  life  a  harp 
to  which  he  reached  his  idle  fingers. 

When  she  looked  about,  Corbett  had  gone  to  the 
study  and  was  speaking  to  the  girl,  sorting  his 
papers  with  well-remembered  motions.  And  when 
he  had  sat,  with  Louise  at  her  place  before  the  ma- 
chine, her  note-book  in  her  hand,  he  began  dictating, 
the  familiar  singsong  of  his  voice  but  little  changed, 
it  seemed,  from  any  other  night  in  his  busy  life; 
the  girl's  silent  faithfulness,  and  the  wife  beyond 
idling  in  the  warm  room. 

But  once  she  saw  him  glance,  with  a  start,  over 
his  shoulder,  and  then  go  on;  and  presently  she 
herself  whirled  in  a  nervous  expectance,  to  look 
about  her  at  the  quiet  room.  The  clock,  a  solid  ball 
'of  glass  with  the  dial  showing  crystal  clear,  was 
ticking — the  only  sound.  But  she  wondered  at  his 
start  and  hers ;  a  presence  in  the  still  house  haunting 
them. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SO,  in  the  comforting  intimacy  of  his  study,  they 
were  af  their  accustomed  places,  the  secretary 
in  her  small  chair  a  little  lower  than  his,  as  if,  at 
the  feet  of  the  master,  she  sat  to  learn  and  serve. 
The  friendly  cases,  the  walls,  the  table  with  its 
scuffed  green  cloth  showing  through  heaps  of  man- 
uscript, the  scattered  files,  the  closed  door,  the  still- 
ness— here  a  man  could  recreate  his  nobleness. 

Miss  Hergov  was  saying  in  her  cool  voice :  "Mrs. 
Stratton  of  the  Woman's  Service  Club  telephoned 
to  know  if  you  could  set  a  date  for  your  address. 
They  will  make  it  at  your  convenience/' 

"I'd  forgotten—"  he  mused  a  bit—  "tell  them  the 
twenty-fifth.  Let's  see?— no."  He  pondered.  "If 
I  knew  how  this  thing  at  Rand's  mills  was  coming 
out.  You  see  there  are  things  I'd  want  to  say — 
an  attack  I  could  deliver — that  I  can't,  if — if — " 

"Why  should  you  fear?"  she  said  intently. 

He  looked  away  from  her  clear  gaze ;  he  got  up 
to  pace  the  little  den ;  he  came  back  and  sighed  before 
her:  "Ah,  God — this  thing's  a  nightmare!  Every- 
thing comes  back  to  it,  Louise — all  my  life  at  every 
point — back  to  this — this  pitiful  mill-boy  hidden 
here.  .  .  .  And  Rand,  he  knows !" 

1 68 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          169 

"How  can  you  be  afraid?    Go  on." 

"Those  are  Rand's  words?"  he  had  a  curious 
query:  "Why  fear?  How  would  the  world  look 
at  it  ?  How  could  we  explain  ?  I  might  prove  myself 
clear  as  the  stars  of  guilt  for  this  anarchy,  but  the 
damage  would  be  done,  the  public  mind  poisoned. 
Nothing  could  repair  that." 

She  saw  his  bright,  tired  eyes  on  her,  his  hand 
troubledly  in  his  tousled  brown  hair,  like  a  boy  per- 
plexed. 

He  went  on  eagerly:  "If  the  world  could  see  it 
like  you,  Louise — the  greater  way.  Yet,  to-day,  I 
can't  understand  you — something  seems  to  have 
come  up — you  evade  me.  You  have  such  truthful 
eyes,  Louise,  and  they  seem  hurt — " 

She  did,  indeed,  evade  him.  Then  she  hurried 
on :  "Never  mind,  you  must  go  on.  You  can't  re- 
nounce, nor  give  an  inch — never!" 

And  he  caught  at  this  in  his  heart-hunger.  He 
needed  the  strength  of  women,  they  had  been  his 
shield  through  all  his  fighting  life.  "Dear  girl,"  he 
muttered :  "how  you  understand !  Yes,  my  work — 
your  whole  life's  wrapped  up  in  it.  And  I'll  go  on 
fighting — you  keep  a  man  to  his  best.  You  know 
it's  not  for  myself  at  all !" 

"I've  never  doubted  that." 

He  was  pathetic  in  his  grasping  for  her  praise. 
It  seemed  suddenly  sweeter  than  his  easy  plaudits 
from  the  world.  To  be  the  hero  to  the  one  who 
knows  you  best — and  Louise  knew  him  best  of  all, 


170  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

his  enthusiasms,  battles  and  defeats,  his  little  van- 
ities, and  child's  love  of  support,  even  his  domestic 
truces  and  failures — she  knew  all,  and  he  was  con- 
scious of  it — to  give  his  confidences  to  those  about 
him  was  one  of  his  charms  of  personality.  And  with 
it  all  she  honored  him — that  was  the  greatest  test — 
to  honor  him. 

And  as  he  sat  in  this  great  comforting  faith  in 
her — both  now  conscious,  a  little  confused,  evading 
each  other  directly,  the  door  opened  and  his  mother 
entered.  She  looked  about  in  her  habitual  want  of 
confidence  in  herself :  "My  boy,  I  am  clean  tuckered 
out  readin'  so.  My  glasses  is  outgrowed,  I  do  be- 
lieve. I  just  want  to  say  to  my  boy,  'Good  night.' ' 

He  went  to  kiss  her  eagerly.  SHe  would  never 
remain  long  in  his  study — it  was  a  sort  of  miracle 
shop  to  her  where  he  was  working  the  magic  fame 
and  fortune,  somehow  or  other.  She  was  a  bit  fear- 
some of  it  all  even  in  her  pride. 

"And  Louise,"  she  went  on — "a  girl  workin'  so 
late.  Time  a  body  was  abed." 

"Sit  down,  mother — we're  not  working  yet."  Cor- 
bett  went  on  in  his  affectionate  intent :  "Louise  and 
I  get  to  discussing  things  and  work  goes  smash !" 

"You're  a  dretful  slave,"  the  mother  chided  in  her 
fond  way.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her 
to  him.  "Little  mother,  if  I  could  only  break  you 
of  worrying  about  me!"  He  lifted  her  yellowed 
fingers  which  he  could  recall  working  on  the  button- 
holes of  the  first  pair  of  trousers  h^  had  owned : 


'  Dear  girl,"   he   said,   "how  you   understand !  " 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  171 

"Louise,"  he  cried  gaily,  "whatever  can  we  do  to 
make  her  feel  at  home  here — to  feel  she  belongs 
where  I  belong,  and  shares  what  I  share?  This 
big  Chicago — it  scares  her — she  saw  it  in  the  fifties 
when  the  cows  were  pastured  across  the  river." 

The  pioneer  mother  laughed  shyly :  "It  does  beat 
all !  The  folks  all  rushin'  and  rarin'< — it  ain't  loway 
Center,  nor  anywhere  else  in  the  whole  govern- 
ment !" 

Louise  watched  them,  mother  and  son,, in  this  joy 
of  little  things  that  made  a  home  life  she  had  never 
known — a  one-time  shop-girl,  parentless,  with  mem- 
ories of  Kishenef.  She  could  never  quite  grasp  this 
mid-West  mother  nor  Ennisley's  simplicity  of 
refuge. 

He  broke  in  with  a  burst  of  his  old  fire :  "Chi- 
cago !  It's  wonderful !  It's  all  America  in  the  mak- 
ing !  How  it  heartens  a  man  and  sends  him  on  fight- 
ing— building — yes — dreaming,  too !" 

The  mother  looked  her  admiration:  "And  you 
gittin'  to  be  such  a  great  man!"  she  quavered  tri- 
umphantly, "eatin'  with  the  president,  and  I  don't 
know  what  all!" 

His  deprecating,  pleased  laugh  came ;  his  buoyant 
spirit  was  already  slipping  past  his  trouble,  finding 
courage  in  the  day's  work  and  his  home's  solace. 
With  his  wife  he  watched  the  mother  go  on  her 
eternal  puttering  about  the  rooms,  while  Demetra 
stood  by  in  her  clean  indifference.  She  had  quite 
recovered,  it  seemed,  and  before  her  husband  was 


172           MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

her  usual  tolerant,  disengaged  self,  a  burden 
would  carry  gladly,  life  long,  so  strange  is  1( 
so  eager  to  scourge  itself,  to  wear  chains,  to 
hungry,  to  go  fetch  for  the  scantiest  meed. 

"Eh,  mother?"  he  mused,  "she'll  never  char 
She  sits  up  for  me  now  as  she  used  to  do  w 
Archie  and  I  were  late  getting  home  from  sc 
church  ice-cream  festival !" 

The  eyes  of  the  two  foreign  women  went  to 
fine,  brown-bearded  face  dreaming  back  to  his  sn 
town  rearing — seeing  Jessie  home  from  the  Met 
dist  social,  loitering  on  the  drug:store  corner  01 
the  depot  for  the  Sunday  papers ;  all  the  charm 
his  mid- West  American  boyhood  was  about  him  ; 
They,  from  their  childhood  memories  of  dirty 
lages  and  sodden  fields,  the  sense  of  the  peasai 
hopelessness,  the  shop,  the  steerage,  the  night  sch< 
coming  up  to  new  freedom — from  this  they  triec 
bridge  the  gap  to  him. 

Then,  on  their  common  reverie,  came  a  s 
Rand  had  appeared  from  the  shadows  of  the  1 
of  the  great  house  beyond.  He  stood  gravely  wat 
ing  them ;  always,  it  seemed,  he  was  coming  on  tf 
privacy  and  complacence  to  prick  some  one  on 
outrage. 

Corbett  started  impatiently:  "I  thought  yo 
gone?" 

Rand  came  nearer:  "Where?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  John  Bride's— aren't  3 
staying  there?" 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  173 

"My  brother,"  he  went  on  gravely,  "was  thirsty 
— I  fetched  him  more  water.  His  arm  was  bleed- 
ing— he  hurt  it  striking  me.  I  tied  it  with  fresh 
bandages." 

The  wife  looked  at  him  in  a  terror  that  was  part 
fury.  The  music  of  his  voice  cut  Corbett  as  would 
an  acid.  And  from  one  man  to  the  other  Louise 
looked  with  strange  stealth. 

The  doctor  fidgeted.  "I'm  trying  to  work,  Rand. 
There's  much  to  do.  I — I  want  to  forget  this — 
to  take  my  mind  off — "  his  hand  went  to  his  eyes 
as  if  to  banish  a  phantom —  "work,  a  little,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"The  brother-beast,"  Rand  gravely  said,  "is  still, 
his  wounds  washed,  and  asleep.  Work  on,  go  your 
way  in  peace.  Why  fear?" 

"Rand,"  the  other  man  began,  burning  in  some 
hope  that  seemed  a  degradation,  "he's  only  a  tool 
— a  child  crushed  in  the  mills.  I  know  his  history 
since  he  was  seven.  A  child  brutalized — what  could 
one  expect?" 

"Eh?  What!"  His  eyes  went  to  the  wife  with 
a  smile  that  drew  her  fire,  that  played  upon  her  as 
if,  indeed,  she  were  a  harp  in  his  hands.  "What 
would  one  expect?" 

"In  your  mills,  Rand !"  the  wife  cried,  then  rose 
with  a  mutter:  "I'll  not  stay.  You  play  on  us — 
you've  haunted  this  house — you're  a  devil  moving 
through  it!  I'll  not  stay— I'll  not  listen!" 

With  that  she  burst  from  them,  and  the  husband 


174          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

stood  pale,  staring  at  the  guest,  confused  at  De- 
metra's  passion,  seeking  light.  At  the  door  she 
turned  with  half  a  shriek :  "Did  you  think  we'd  con- 
fess to  him?" 

"No.  That  is  beyond  you."  He  grimaced  at 
them  both.  "That  is  given  only  to  the  fools,  the 
martyrs  and  the  Christs." 

And  they  left  the  room,  the  husband  and  wife  to- 
gether, as  if  driven  by  a  scourge.  Rand  sat  down 
across  from  Miss  Hergov  with  an  air  of  some 
satisfaction  and  fell  to  scratching  in  his  tobacco 
pocket. 

"You  know  well  enough  Doctor  Ennisley  can  not 
recognize  this  man/'  the  secretary  said.  "He  can 
help  him  get  away,  clothe  him,  give  him  money, 
but  not  receive  him." 

"Those  are  the  least  of  his  needs.  He  came  cry- 
ing out  his  soul  to  his  brother.  A  faith,  a  dream 
— well,  who  put  it  there  ?" 

She  watched  him,  curiously  stilled.  "I  wonder," 
she  said,  "what  is  behind  your  mask?  Tell  me!" 

And  because  only  his  slow  smile  came,  she  rose 
and  went  before  the  gross  hulk  sunken  in  the  chair 
and  put  her  hand  upon  him.  "Tell  me,"  she  re- 
peated, "you're  a  puzzle." 

"You  do  not  seem  to  fear,"  he  answered. 

"Why  fear?" 

They  were  his  own  words — he  listened  with  an 
odd  shift  of  his  unlit  eyes.  Then,  as  ever,  out  of 
his  reserve  of  humor,  he  rebuffed  her. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  ,        175 

"You  are  admirable.  I  notice  you  dare  lay  a 
hand  on  me.  I  believe  you  would  dare  twist  the 
robe  of  God,  if  you  saw  there  what  you  wanted. 
And  how  much  there  is  you  want!  To  love,  to 
worship  and  ennoble!  And  now  you  stand  before 
a  dying  altar  fire — I  could  really  be  eloquent  over 
you — I  could  find  the  language  of  a  poet.  Here 
you  watch  this  man  in  the  test,  and  your  hero-wor- 
ship crumbles." 

"I  do  not  speak  for  him,"  she  retorted  steadily. 
"But  the  great  thing  beyond.  I  tell  you,  if  I  could 
take  this  anarchist's  guilt  on  myself — if  I  could  give 
myself—" 

"For  what?"  he  put  in —  "the  usual  sort  of  thing 
a  woman  sacrifices  for — her  love,  or  her  sentiment 
for  the  mere  thing,  love — " 

"No." 

"What,  then?" 

"The  brotherhood." 

He  laughed  inconsequentially.  "You  tire  me 
with  repetitions.  We've  just  tested  the  brotherhood. 
It  at  once  created  a  panic.  Now  leave  it." 

"Tell  me,"  she  muttered,  "why  you  took  this  boy 
— sheltered  him — fed  him,  are  patient  with  him? 
Ah,  yes,  I've  seen  a  hunger  in  your  face,  seeking 
always  in  this  man's  home  for  something  denied 
you!  You've  nothing — a  beggar!" 

"I  am,  first  of  all,  a  humorist,"  Tie  retorted,  "and 
lastly  a  humorist.  Do  not  disturb  yourself  with 
seeking  any  significances  in  me.  I  take  the  most 


176  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

obvious  and  reasonable  things  and  hold  them  up 
to  men's  gaze ;  it  makes  one  shout  with  laughter  to 
watch  them  howl  and  run.  Christ  might  have  had 
a  like  diversion  if  He  had  not  been  such  a  serious 
person." 

She  was  preparing  to  go,  leaving  him  sleepily 
apathetic  in  the  chair.  She  tried  to  summon  her 
hate  of  him,  but  one  can  neither  hate  nor  love  a 
fat  man  who  seems  intent  on  regarding  one  with 
mere  good  humor. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THURSDAY  evening  Rand  came  alone  to  the 
house,  John  Bride,  who  had  told  him  of  his 
father's  request — an  invitation  that  had  the  per- 
emptoriness  of  an  order — being  busied  at  his  flats 
on  some  of  his  interminable  small  meddlings  with 
his  tenants'  fortunes.  The  old  Scot  had  touched 
Rand's  arm  as  he  told  of  it :  "Lad,  it  did  na'  surprise 
me.  I've  watched  the  auld  man  since  ye  came;  he 
drew  himself  further  away,  but  he  can  not  deceive 
me.  It's  the  loosening  of  waters  long  held  back — 
the  father's  crying  out  for  ye  behind  his  pride." 

The  son  had  met  the  news  with  silence  unlike 
himself. 

"Ye'll  go?"  Brother  John  continued;  "ye'11  go  and 
ye'll  be  civil  for  the  common  humanity  o'  it — apart 
from  its  policy,  and  I  do  not  say  ye  are  above  that. 
Ye'r  the  sole  heir  of  Rand's.  Ye'll  go,  man?" 

"To  eat  with  him,  drink  with  him — perhaps  more 
- — listen  to  him.  I  am  equal  to  it,  John  Bride." 

"This  is  no  the  speerit  for  it,  Herford.  It  was 
not  so  the  prodigal  came." 

"Did  you  think  me  one?" 

The  old  man  sighed;  his  had  been  a  thankless 
employ  for  a  thankless  guest  the  week  since  Rand 

177 


178  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

came  to  him.  "Ye  both  need  kindlier  way/'  he 
murmured,  "two  stubborn  pieces — hard  coin  to  lie 
o'  the  same  pocket.  Ah,  well — let  be !  Til  meet  ye 
there.  There'll  be  Hayes  and  his  woman,  and  the 
professor  and  his  handsome  wife,  and  auld  John— 
the  old  ghost  house  will  have  seen  no  such  dinner 
party  in  sixteen  years.  Eh? — just  to  open  it  to  the 
sun  would  be  a  human  service." 

From  this  Rand  had  come  alone  to  his  father's 
house,  entering,  not  as  he  had  done,  by  the  side  way 
past  Ennisley's  apartments,  but  up  the  broad  walk 
of  old  cracked  tiles  to  the  front.  Bullock  opened 
the  door  and,  without  greeting,  the  son  passed  in. 
He  paused  on  the  noiseless  rugs  and  looked  back  at 
the  aged  servant  closing  the  door,  his  bald  head 
grotesque  under  the  flicker  of  the  high  bluish  lights 
shed  from  the  crystal  pendants  in  the  chandelier. 
The  son  remembered  this — Bullock's  head  like  a 
blue  beetle  shining  in  the  ironic  shadows  of  the  hall 
— so  he  had  seen  it  twenty-five  years  ago. 

The  old  man  ambled  back  to  his  wonted  quarters, 
under  the  turn  of  the  rear  stairs.  Rand  went  to 
the  library;  he  stood  looking  quietly  at  the  rear 
alcove.  In  the  heavy  and  austere  draping  of 
the  entrance  some  one  moved.  The  light  was  dim, 
but  he  saw  now  a  form  drawing  about  itself  the 
hem  of  the  portiere  and  glancing  beyond  to  the 
ancient  begilded  pier  glass  that  ran  from  floor  to 
ceiling  between  the  shuttered  windows.  Louise 
moved  softly,  she  bent,  holding  the  fabric  about  her 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  179 

shoulders,  her  hips,  smoothing  it,  looking  back  at 
the  dim  reflection,  a  single  glint  of  light  on  her  face, 
her  hand  to  her  hair — this  was  the  picture  he  saw. 
She  drew  her  shoulders  back,  she  breathed  deep — 
she  imagined  herself  quite  alone,  and  she  lived  the 
brief  moment.  It  was  a  trick  she  had  done  many 
times  when  time  hung  in  the  silent  house — to  come 
here  to  the  great  rooms,  tomb-like — to  draw  about 
her  the  heavy  weave  and  stand  watching  herself. 
She  imagined  herself  the  mistress  here ;  she  had  an 
orientalized  love  of  draperies,  the  feel  of  rich  stuffs, 
perfumes  suggesting  passions  dead,  hidden  in  other 
years.  She  pictured  herself  thus  standing  rapt,  at- 
tentive, commanding  in  some  theatric  crisis  of  the 
world,  or  an  immolation  exquisite  in  its  pure  offer- 
ing of  self  to  some  call  of  the  soul,  the  pathos  that 
you  can  not  quite  call  out  to  the  imagination. 

This  was  a  secret  giving  to  her  secret  self;  she 
wondered  at  it  at  times;  it  seemed  an  atavistic 
prompting  from  some  line  of  queens,  this  spell  to 
which  she  gave  herself  in  the  rich  man's  house; 
she,  the  essentially  modern,  agnostic,  tolerant,  res- 
olute, steadfast  day  by  day  in  her  meager  life — a 
Jew  girl,  pale,  with  thick  coarse  hair,  a  grave  face 
and  eyes  with  their  fixing  blue.  It  was  only  here  in 
Rand's  house,  silent,  alone,  she  lent  herself  to  this. 
She  stood  in  this  dream,  believing  herself  a 
Boadicea,  a  Joan,  the  Roman  matron  offering  her 
jewels.  .  .  .  She  would,  indeed,  have  been  a 
mother,  to  send  a  man-child  to  the  world,  grasping 


180  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

power,  dominating  his  time,  compelling  pause.  And 
with  all  this  inner  woman  splendor  she  was  merely 
Miss  Hergov,  a  secretary-stenographer  in  a  rich 
man's  house,  subdued,  contained,  faithful. 

And  now,  past  her  apparition  in  the  glass,  she  saw 
Rand.  Instantly  she  turned,  still  in  the  drapery ;  but 
he  had  come  nearer,  and  she  stood,  transfixed  in  her 
pose,  when  he  spoke. 

"I  told  you  once,"  he  said  gravely,  "to  wear 
always  a  flower  in  your  hair.  Here — this."  He 
had  held  out  a  sprig  of  young  lilac  which  he  had 
plucked,  coming  from  the  gate.  "This — "  he  went 
on — "it  will  complete  the  picture — it  will  satisfy 
even  me,  and  that,  I  assure  you,  is  much."  And 
with  his  serious  gesture  he  held  it  to  her.  She  let 
the  curtains  fall  slowly,  her  fingers  closed  on  the 
green,  rough-broken  stem.  She  was  too  surprised 
for  words;  too  studied  with  her  attempt  to  hate. 
From  the  shadows  of  the  house  he  was  always  com- 
ing silently  on  one  or  the  other  of  them  to  burst 
their  bubbles.  He  stepped  away  to  his  first  position, 
looking  back,  not  at  her,  but  at  the  picture  in  the 
mirror  which  had  that  inexplicable  charm  of  a  pre- 
sentment, the  mystery  of  verisimilitude  which  one 
would  rather  see  than  the  life  it  counterfeits — 
there  is,  in  fact,  in  a  mirror,  always  the  occult. 

Then  he  spoke  again,  gravely,  musically.  You 
would  have  supposed  him  a  master  staging  an  epi- 
sode ;  an  artist  setting  his  model.  "Don't  speak — go 
on  with  your  dream,  the  lilac  in  your  hair,  the 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  181 

drapery  about  you.  You  are  beyond  yourself — a 
little  drab  of  duty — don't  speak — the  thing  is  admir- 
able— complete.  It  satisfies  even  me." 

Then  he  had  gone,  leaving  her  dumfounded, 
alone  in  the  half-lights.  And  after  a  moment  when 
she  stole  swiftly  to  the  hall,  he  had  disappeared. 
She  went  back  mute,  feeling  of  the  lilac  stem. 

Rand  had  gone  to  the  upper  hall ;  he  paused  once, 
listening,  the  silence  intolerable.  He  met  old  Bul- 
lock toiling  heavily  up  the  rear  stairs. 

"I  forgot  to  say,  sir/'  he  began,  "that  dinner  is 
to  be  served  at  half -past  seven.  Mr.  Hayes  could 
not  come  sooner,  and  Judge  Rand  is  lying  down." 

There  was  an  hour  to  wait.  The  son  nodded. 
When  the  man  had  gone,  he  frowned  against  the 
accusing  walls.  He  would  not  endure  this.  He  went 
to  the  rear  and  down  a  corridor  to  a  zinc-covered 
door  beaten  full  of  nails,  close-fitting,  padlocked. 
He  opened  this  with  his  key,  stepped  down,  and  was 
in  a  narrow  cross  corridor  on  whose  mattinged  floor 
the  dust  lay  thick  with  a  stirred  trail  down  its  mid- 
dle to  the  end  of  the  wing.  He  went  on  and  at  a 
closed  door,  knocked,  rattled  it  until  the  dynamiter 
came,  Karasac,  thin- faced,  rat-eyed,  suspicious,  sav- 
age, refusing  to  speak,  holding  his  broken  arm  in 
its  dirty  clothes,  merely  watching  the  other,  his  dim 
soul  groping,  too,  at  the  enigma. 

At  half-past  seven  Stephen  Rand  met  his  guests 
in  the  drawing-room,  with  its  gilt  oval  mirrors,  its 


1 82           MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

shuttered  windows  in  whose  laces  hung  the  smell  of 
disuse,  its  stiff  furniture  of  horsehair  and  oak,  the 
pitiableness  of  fashion  gone.  The  wife  of  Byron 
Hayes,  the  superintendent  of  his  South  mills,  greeted 
him  with  the  sympathetic  effusion,  the  adulatory 
smirk  which  the  dependent  rich  give  to  the  over-rich 
and  great.  She  had  the  sort  of  middle-class  over- 
dressing, the  conforming  type  of  matron  you  will 
see  about  the  best  hotels  and  in  Pullman  sections, 
the  smug  assumption  of  caste  in  the  American 
woman  which  the  rub  of  the  democracy  of  business 
has  kept  from  her  complementing  man.  Hayes,  the 
self-made,  was  more  true.  Corbett  Ennisley  was 
there,  quiet,  paler  than  usual,  greeting  the  judge 
with  some  constraint.  And  John  Bride,  in  a  quaintly 
long  coat  and  bulging  shirt  bosom,  his  face  red, 
rich  as  a  beet  salad,  with  his  dry  quip  about  the 
weather  and  his  dig  at  the  billiards — this  was  the 
group  gathered  in  more  or  less  pretense  of  urbanity 
for  this  momentous  night — the  return  of  the  prodi- 
gal. They  had  a  trying  period  of  waiting,  the  point- 
less, uncertain  talk  of  the  expectant  and  unsecure. 
The  justice  glanced  again  at  his  watch. 

"Your  wife,  Doctor,"  he  said  to  Corbett,  "is  not 
here.  .  .  .  And  my  son — "  he  stopped,  his  clean- 
cut  lips  closing — it  was  like  the  fellow  at  the  crisis 
of  his  life  to  make  them  wait,  to  draw  their  nerves 
to  intolerable  tension. 

"The  mon  put  off  early,"  John,  Bride  said. 
"Stephen,  he  must  be  here." 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER           183 

"I've  not  seen  him."  The  judge  beckoned  Bul- 
lock. 

"He  is  here,"  the  man  answered,  "I  left  him 
in  the  hall  above  an  hour  ago,  sir." 

"Well- — well—"  the  judge  was  testy — it  was  not 
a  good  omen.  "We  shall  go  on  without  him.  He 
can  find  his  place  in  his  own  way — he'd  always  do 
that  at  the  best.  Come,  my  friends — Mrs.  Ennisley 
—here?" 

.  Demetra  joined  them  without,  the  justice  bowing 
in  his  austere  courtesy.  Corbett's  mother  was  with 
the  wife,  greatly  frightened,  wondering  if  her  lace 
neck-piece  was  up  or  down,  her  claw  of  a  hand  go- 
ing to  it  ever. 

So  they  got  seated  at  last  in  that  inconsequential 
and  silly  ferment  of  the  guest  ill  at  ease ;  Mrs.  Hayes 
at  the  justice's  right,  the  others  along  with  no  order, 
John  Bride's  bloom  of  a  face  peering  up  from  the 
end  among  the  tarnished  candlesticks,  like  a  monkey 
behind  bars.  Corbett  had  his  mother  by  his  side, 
and  his  wife  was  across  with  Mr.  Hayes.  Demetra 
studied  his  face.  It  seemed  older  within  the  week. 
She  wondered  if,  too,  the  nights  had  lined  her  own. 

John  Bride  brought  in  some  clatter  with  the  soup 
— his  tenants  and  Tubby's  toothache — looking 
roguishly  across  at  the  country  woman  and  her  awe. 
He  drew  her  out  with  this.  She  forgot  the  judge's 
mask-like  face  at  the  end  of  the  table,  the  pompous 
bulk  of  Mrs.  Hayes,  the  stealthy  serving-man  and 
the  close  room — all  this  fearsomeness  beyond  her 


1 84          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

Iowa  conceptions.  The  rest  listened  to  old  John's 
jokes  and  the  old  woman's  wide-eyed  if  furtive  little 
cackles — they  were  ill-placed,  waiting  .  .  .  the 
justice's  face  one  you  would  not  look  at  long. 

"La'  sakes,"  answered  the  country  woman  to 
John's  quip,  "you  must  like  young  ones,  advertisin' 
for  poor  folks  that  has  'em  to  fill  your  flats.  It's 
rill  queer — like  my  Corbetty  and  his  young  ones 
workin'  in  them  mills  down  South." 

Brother  John  tried  to  cover  with  his  snigger.  The 
mention  of  the  mills  was  as  a  dagger  thrust  up  from 
the  board  before  each  guest. 

"Ah,  woman — I  get  my  toll  of  them.  They  do 
an  old  heart  good,  comin'  down  the  stairs  wi'  their 
clatter.  Some  folk  complain  o'  the  noise,  but  it 
does  me  good.  It's  a  cheerfu'  human  sound  in  the 
morning,  and  grand  to  think  of  o'  nights — my  prop- 
erty shelterin'  the  bairns." 

"And  you  never  had  none?"  she  returned.  "You 
never  married,  Mr.  Bride?" 

The  old  Scot  laughed ;  he  looked  about  and  at  his 
cousin — perhaps  they  knew  something  that  forty 
years  had  hidden.  But  the  judge  put  in,  gravely: 
"Madam,  he  had  a  wife  and  child  in  one — it  was 
the  railroad  he  put  out  through  the  Northwest  in 
pioneer  days,  and  nursed  and  dandled  until  it  could 
walk  alone.  There's  towns  full  of  folk  out  through 
the  Dakotas  that  would  never  have  been  if  John  had 
preferred  a  snug  bed  to  storm  and  work  and  build- 
ing. There  were  branches  where  we  faltered,  but 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  185 

John  went  ahead,  pleading  for  the  country,  proclaim- 
ing what  it  should  come  to.  He's  been  husband  and 
father  to  more  cities  than  there  are  fingers  on  my 
hands  .  .  .  and  little  they  know  or  care." 

John  laughed ;  the  old  woman  getting  back  from 
her  confusion  at  being  addressed  so  long  and  boldly 
by  the  great  man,  so  simply,  too,  and  humanly.  To 
hear  him  praise  another  man  suddenly  enlarged  you. 

"I've  heard  tell,"  she  began,  finding  a  pride  in  her 
courage  to  talk.  "We  was  West  afore  that.  My 
boys'  pa  and  me  come  from  Pennsylvania  afore  the 
war — months  and  months,  when  they  wan't  no  road 
beyond  the  Missouri.  The  prairie  schooners 
wormin'  on  and  on,  the  critters  droppin'  in  the  heat 
and  dust  and  the  men  folks  fightin'  the  Indians  off 
ahead,  and  the  wimmen  and  children  livin'  on  corn- 
bread  and  buffalo  juice,  the  critters  was  that  thin. 
And  my  Jared  led  that  train  and  when  he  come  on 
trappers  and  traders  on  the  Platte  he'd  say :  'Which 
road,  neighbor — which  way?'  And  they  p'inted  on, 
and  so  we  come  to  the  Black  Hills  country,  the 
critters  droppin'  in  their  yokes  with  heat  and  hunger 
and  the  arrows  in  'em.  And  we  stayed  year  in  and 
out  till  the  grasshoppers  took  the  corn  and  the  In- 
dians the  stock,  and  we  was  drove  back  across  the 
river  to  loway.  But  I  remember  the  wimmen  and 
children  huddled  under  the  canvas  tops  while  the 
men  parleyed  ahead,  findin'  the  road  for  'em  through 
the  short  grass  country — allus  it  was  that — 'Which 
road,  neighbor?' ' 


1 86          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

They  looked  upon  her  curiously,  the  judge,  the 
son,  the  foreign  wife;  her  scrawny  neck  and  year- 
worn  face — the  dowdy  little  mid- West  woman,  who 
followed  the  fighting  men  and  gave  her  sons  to  its 
newer  battles  for  the  last  of  the  races  pressing  on  the 
long  trail  to  the  sunset.  The  wife  regarded  her  and 
the  old  shy  eyes  came  back  to  this  astonishing,  full- 
lifed  creature — her  son's  wife  in  her  black,  low-cut 
gown  of  filmy  stuff  accenting  her  sensuous  charm. 

"That  was  the  land  we  came  to/'  said  the  judge, 
"we  old  ones.  There's  different  breed  now,  madam 
— more  evil  questions." 

"Man,  it's  grand  still,"  John  Bride  retorted.  "Ye 
must  look  larger,  that's  all.  There's  the  same  roarin' 
and  pourin'  in  and  buildin'  and  hammerin'  wi'  all 
the  foreign  folk.  Ye  can  see,  Mrs.  Ennisley,  can't 
ye — we  were  the  first  rough  workers — only  that." 

"That's  what  my  Corbetty  says.  He  never  gives 
up  standing  for  these  foreign  folks — these  strikes 
and  fights  and  all.  Tears  like  a  body  can't  pick  up 
a  paper  nowadays  without  somebody  gittin'  blowed 
up." 

They  were  stilled  again.  The  judge  looked  grimly 
down  the  board  at  his  men  guests ;  they  had  no  re- 
assurance. Hayes  made  an  impatient  gesture.  And 
then  his  wife,  who  had  found  herself  overborne, 
said,  with  an  air  of  putting  a  snaffle  on  the  question : 
"There's  more  in  the  papers  to-night."  She  looked 
about  triumphantly  at  Stephen  Rand  and  at  Corbett 
Ennisley.  "Another  one  is  dying!" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  187 

"Dying?"  Corbett  muttered,  despite  himself. 

"Another  policeman.  And  the  papers  said  they 
were  tracing  the  anarchists  back  to  Chicago — that 
most  likely  they  were  hid  here." 

"Yes?"  The  wife  sat  forward;  she  glanced  at 
Corbett's  profile  turned  up  the  table  to  the  judge's 
composed  face.  The  old  mother  fidgeted  with  the 
intuition  which  told  her  that  her  beloved  was  in 
question. 

The  mill  superintendent  thought  it  was  his  turn; 
the  subject  had  been  introduced,  and  it  was  one  thing 
on  which  he  could  talk  victoriously,  undefeatably. 
He  went  on  in  the  pause : 

"But  the  thing's  over,  Judge.  Fourteen  arrests 
made  at  the  college  settlement — only  one  of  the 
dynamiters  got  away — a  fellow  named  Karaski,  or 
something  like  that — a  Pole — a  mill-boy." 

The  judge  grunted.  Hayes  took  it  for  assent  and 
went  on:  "Karaski — did  you  know  any  hand  of 
that  name  at  your  meetings,  Professor?" 

Corbett's  eyes  went  slowly  from  Hayes  to  his 
wife.  He  saw  her  eyelids  flitting,  low. 

"No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "I  never  heard  of 
him." 

"Well,  they'll  get  him."  Hayes'  voice  had  the 
snap  of  the  hungry  hound  long  deferred.  "The  po- 
lice are  wild — five  killed."  He  chuffed  away  at  his 
salad.  "They'll  catch  the  beast  and  hang  him — yes, 
it's  a  wild  beast  hunt,  that's  what  it  is." 

The  judge's  eyes  wandered  to  the  somber  door 


1 88  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

and  to  the  unturned  plate  at  Brother  John's  side. 
Hayes  took  his  reverie  for  patience ;  he  continued : 

"How  long  would  it  be,  sir,  before  the  assassins 
are  at  our  throats  if  this  teaching  is  continued — 
the  magazines  and  the  colleges  and  some  of  the 
churches?  How  long,  sir,  with  this  socialistic  pap 
preached  and  listened  to,  unrebuked,  unpunished?" 

The  socialist  across  from  him  stirred,  his  eyes 
shone;  he  would  have  spoken,  but  the  judge's  patient 
voice  came  in :  "The  laws  will  uphold,  my  friend — 
will  punish  and  protect — " 

The  wife  had  started,  turned,  her  white  hand  up- 
lifted. "Listen!" 

And  they  paused,  they  knew  not  why.  She  was 
looking  at  the  butler  by  the  door. 

"A  sound — "  they  heard  her  whisper,  as  if  to  her- 
self. 

The  servant  inclined  his  head  as  if  she  had  ques- 
tioned him:  "A  sound,"  he  said.  "Madam  is  right." 

And  on  the  instant  old  Bullock  put  a  startled  face 
in  their  line  of  vision  of  the  hall:  "A  noise?"  they 
heard  him  mutter.  "Footsteps  in  the  wing,  and 
something  like  a  body  falling !" 

They  were  stilled;  the  butler  cleared  his  throat 
apologetically;  he  appeared  to  be  thrusting  the  old 
door  man  to  one  side. 

"I  did  not  hear,"  the  father  put  in  to  the  silence. 
"A  fall?"  And  then  he  quavered,  an  old  man 
perturbed,  haunted:  "My  dear— a  fall!"  "Lis- 
ten!" the  wife  retorted,  and  each  who  saw  her 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  189 

start — the  dread  upon  her.  And  then  they  heard 
again  old  Bullock's  exclamation,  the  butler  moved 
with  a  mutter — and  Rand  was  in  the  way.  They 
stared  at  him;  he  was  in  evening  clothes  much  too 
small,  tight  across  his  heavy  shoulders,  the  white 
linen  and  the  tie  bringing  out  the  year-hardened 
bronze  of  his  full  neck  and  broad  face — tall,  grave, 
with  his  Indian  stealth  he  had  come.  He  fixed  the 
dim  room,  the  group  with  a  look,  and  then  came 
with  his  astonishing  agility  to  the  empty  chair  be- 
tween John  Bride  and  Demetra  and  dropped  easily 
into  it.  He  looked  about  with  his  imperturbable 
eyes,  his  half-leer,  half-smile  of  humor. 

They  stared  at  him;  they  awaited  his  word,  the 
father  the  dumbest  of  them  all.  Then  John  Bride 
rose  with  a  hand  out  to  him  in  an  honest  joy. 

"Rand,  lad,  I  say  ye — welcome!  There's  four 
times  welcome  here !" 

"You  well  may,  John  Bride,"  the  new  guest  re- 
torted, "it's  been  overlong." 

"You're  late,"  the  father  said,  his  heavy  eyes 
upon  him.  "Bronson,  take  the  plates — and  serve 
him  as  he  wishes." 

But  if  the  devil  had  stepped  among  them  they 
could  not  be  more  obsessed.  The  superintendent 
and  his  wife  stilled,  Corbett  staring,  and  his  wife, 
her  eyes_bloodshot,  unable  to  leave  his  face.  And  to 
her  he  now  grimaced  with  his  old  barbaric  trick, 
baring  his  teeth  like  a  gargoyle,  bald,  acrid,  silent. 
The  country  mother  clucked  in  her  throat;  John 


190          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

Bride  sighed.  His  presence  smote  them — it  drove 
out  what  of  common  ease  the  hour  had  found. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  began,  "let  us  forego  the  soup. 
Bring  meat  and  bread — the  elemental  things. 
There's  too  much  made  of  this  eating.  There's 
neither  poetry  nor  taste  in  it.  A  man  should  eat 
alone  and  be  done  with  it.  ...  And  there's 
nothing  pretty  in  watching  a  woman  tear  flesh  with 
her  teeth." 

"Man,"  old  John  chuckled,  "ye'r  bauld  out  wi' 
it!" 

The  son  was  unmoved — if  he  played  with  them, 
they  could  not  guess.  On  Hayes  and  his  wife  his 
glance  went  with  ironic  indifference — the  wife  felt 
the  sting  of  the  ignoring.  She  must  assert  herself : 
"Now,  I  think  nothing's  finer  than  a  dinner  party. 
It  brings  people  together  and  makes  'em  sociable. 
Society  depends  a  great  deal  on  'em — dinners." 

"So  it  does  on  the  police." 

"The  police?"  The  little  Iowa  woman  was  un- 
comprehending :  "More  killed  ?" 

"We  were  speaking  of  the  riots,  sir,"  Hayes  got 
back  his  managerial  manner.  "Five  dead  from  the 
bomb  now." 

"Most  of  the  devices  to  get  people  out  of  the 
world  are  indecent."  He  singled  the  manager's  wife 
with  his  unlit  eye.  "And  death  settles  nothing.  It's 
like  a  fool  who  interrupts  a  reasonable  discussion  by 
beating  a  drum." 

The  one-time  dressmaker's  assistant  mumbled  the 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  191 

ineffectual  dissent  of  the  inept  of  mind;  for  twelve 
years  she  had  had  a  curiosity  about  the  son  of 
Rand's  house — she  had  promised  herself  this  week 
that  he  should  not  badger  her  as  was  said  to  be  his 
way  with  his  father's  associates. 

They  little  relished  him;  this  was  plain.  Hayes 
went  on  with  the  injured  ponderosity  of  the  right- 
eous and  the  bewildered :  "The  police,  sir,  were  de- 
fending your  property." 

"Exactly.  For  my  profit.  We're  lucky — we 
rich." 

The  judge's  face  hardened.  "My  son,  have  you 
come  back  to  this?  still  the  mocker  of  all  good — the 
very  hands  that  would  protect  you?" 

"I  have  little  love  for  that  which  I  buy — and  one 
can  buy  duty,  the  cheapest  bargain  in  the  world." 

The  old  man  sat  wearied;  his  dream,  it  seemed, 
faded.  "We  need  not  discuss  the  mills  now,  at  this 
table." 

"Eh?  Why  not?  Let  us  see  clearly — a  police- 
man dynamited — a  mill-boy  hanged?  What  does  it 
come  to?  Merely  that  we  preserve  our  profit." 

They  stirred.  He  saw  the  wife's  face  steel  itself 
against  his  look.  The  superintendent's  woman  took 
up  the  matter  with  a  voice  that  trembled :  "You're 
unhuman — impossible.  The  mills — " 

"The  mills?"  he  retorted.  "Great  God— the  mills, 
whirring- — whirring,  always,  day  and  night!  The 
wheels  go  round,  the  smoke  drifts  off,  and  the 
traders  haggle  and  lie — for  what  ?  Merely  our  divi- 


I92          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

dends?  Why  quarrel  about  a  policeman  more  or 
less  blown  up,  deleted  ?  We  can  buy  others  in  their 
places — what  of  it,  then?" 

The  old  judge,  it  appeared,  was  trying  to  rise, 
feebly.    "Unchanged — unregenerate,"  he  muttered. 
"I'd  hoped  you'd  come  back  a  man." 
"I  am  more — a  prophet." 

They  had  no  answer  for  a  time,  and  then  John 
Bride  brought  his :  "I  think  you  are  fair  cracked, 
Herford.  Stephen's  mills — the  property — they  need 
a  strong  hand  now.  There  have  come  evil  times." 
The  superintendent  spoke:  "The  mills,  Rand, 
have  not  paid  a  dividend  this  season,  what  with  the 
mollycoddling  interference  of  some  we  know." 

"That  is,  indeed,  a  crime."  His  grave  voice  lifted 
in  solicitude.  "The  little  beasts  that  work  for  us — 
haven't  they  enough  to  eat?  Wear?  Brains  to  rea- 
son with?  It  is  a  beautiful  world  to  live  in — see — 
dream  of — and  they  live  but  once.  God  help  me, 
but  give  the  little  animals  what  they  wish  and  be 
done  with  it !" 

"They  said,"  muttered  the  manager's  wife,  "that 
you  were  mad — " 

"I  never  could  live  within  smell  of  my  tribe — 
that's  true." 

"And  you  come  to  us  preaching  of  morality,"  she 
went  on,  despite  Hayes'  frown :  "You — to  tell  us 
truth!" 

"I  could  instruct  the  wisest  of  you.  I  could 
preach  endlessly  to  you.  I  do,  indeed,  lie  awake 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  193 

nights  to  coin  phrases  to  heap  on  you.  Let  us,  then, 
discuss  the  matter.  In  your  gardens  you  breed  the 
pure  soul  of  a  flower;  in  your  stables  the  strength 
of  fine  horses;  in  your  preserves  the  beauty  of  the 
deer — all  for  your  pleasure,  your  profit.  And  in 
the  mills,  eh? — what?  The  beast — also  for  your 
profit." 

"You  are  beyond  reason  or  common  sense/'  she 
snapped  against  the  judge's  gesture  for  her  silence. 
"This  is  all  your  vanity !" 

"Doubtless.  For  that  I  would  build  much.  When 
this  place  is  mine  I'll  have  no  money-getters  at  its 
table.  All  the  tongue-tied  poets,  the  old  men  and 
the  cripples,  the  blind,  the  failures  and  the  children 
— all  those  who  knew  not  how  to  work  their 
brothers  for  a  profit.  To  lie  on  the  grass  and  look 
up  at  the  sky — to  drip  their  fingers  in  cool  water  in 
the  fountains." 

"One  day — and  the  next,  may  I  ask?"  Hayes 
grinned  at  him. 

"The  next — to  the  devil  with  them,  I  suppose? 
Man,  I  can't  lift  the  world !" 

The  doctor  muttered ;  he  had  had  no  word  in  this. 
His  hand  was  on  his  mother's  knee,  her  hand  within 
his  fingers.  When  his  eyes  found  his  wife  she  did 
not  look  again  at  him.  The  old  justice  shifted  in 
his  seat. 

"Enough  of  this.  It  was  like  you  to  start  a  fool's 
talk  on  the  instant  you  came  back.  You  will  re- 
member that  there  are  women  present." 


194          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Women  ?  Let  them  listen  to  me.  They  are  the 
Sybarites  of  the  age — the  autocrats.  All  the  cruelties 
are  upheld  by  their  cat's  love  of  a  warm  bed,  their 
truckling  to  authority." 

The  manager's  wife  quivered,  jelly-like — she  half 
rose:  "I  suppose  you've  never  found  one  great 
enough  for  your  vanity!" 

"Once  I  thought  I  had — a  beautiful  harp,  and 
she  thrilled  at  my  touch.  Soul — a  nobleness  you 
can  not  imagine — seemed  in  her.  Eh,  well — in 
the  end  she  was  only  a  woman — bought  with  a  ring 
and  some  stuff  or  other.  They  gave  her  a  house 
fat  and  rich,  smelling  of  servants,  and  they  told  her 
the  lies  they  tell — to  be  content  and  please  them. 
Yes,  they  put  the  soul  of  my  woman  there — she  be- 
came common  enough." 

The  old  mother,  it  appeared,  had  sobbed;  she 
murmured:  "Lord  bless  us!  And  him  a  minister 
of  God!" 

Her  daughter-in-law  had  not  stirred  from  her 
composure.  At  times  she  looked  at  Rand  and  at 
times  away — at  times  she  met  his  easy  glance — at 
times  she  did  not  dare. 

"You — you  dare  speak  of  women!"  Mrs.  Hayes 
'cried  out.  "You!" 

!  "There  you  go,  barking  at  me  again,"  he  an- 
swered gravely.  "Women — I  seem  to  earn  their 
hate." 

"You're  strange,"  the  old  man  whispered,  "the 
actor,  the  poseur — always." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  195 

"That,  Your  Honor,  is  why  I  am  listened  to.  It 
is  a  fine  trick.  I  think,  indeed,  that  I  have  done 
excellently  to-night — I  have  had  the  tongue  of  a 
poet  in  me,  the  audacity  of  a  god." 

They  stirred  impotently;  they  fretted  for  words 
that  he  could  not  turn  bitter  on  their  lips.  Their 
silence  seemed  to  annoy  him  presently,  for  from  one 
to  another  his  gray  eye  sought  and  studied  and  came 
back  again  to  each  in  turn.  The  father  broke  the 
constraint  after  a  time,  raising  his  weary  hand. 

"Let  us  be  still  of  this/'  he  said,  "let  us  suffer 
him  and  go  our  ways." 

Rand  sat  before  them  in  the  yellow  table  light, 
sunken  in  his  chair,  eating  little.  Corbett's  wife  did 
not  look  at  him ;  her  body  shrank  to  the  table,  lean- 
ing on  it,  her  eyes  across  the  board  at  her  husband, 
or  intent  on  John  Bride  at  the  end,  or  shifting 
calmly  to  the  host  beyond  the  others.  So  moveless 
had  she  been,  one  would  have  thought  she  was  a 
child  drinking  the  words  of  some  tale  of  wonders. 

But  now,  in  the  pause,  they  heard  a  voice  without 
the  room,  a  maid's  excitement,  and  then  old  Bul- 
lock's querulousness.  The  butler,  too,  was  there, 
exclaiming,  warning  in  reproof.  But  the  girl's 
shrill  fright  rose;  she  stared  within  the  dining- 
room. 

"A  man — they  caught  him  sneaking  down  the 
laundry  steps.  He  had  a  knife — he's  bloody,  and 
Terance,  grabbed  him." 

Her  cackle  came  too  loud  to  disregard.    The  but- 


196  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

ler  made  a  motion  to  keep  her  back,  to  check  her, 
but  again  she  cried :  "A  man — Terance  has  him — 
he's  bringing  him!" 

Within  the  room  Hayes  lifted  back  his  chair: 
"What's  this?"  he  said — "in  the  house— a  man?" 

He  went  out.  With  a  sound  of  some  alarm  his 
wife  followed.  The  justice  looked  up  perturbed, 
questioningly.  The  butler  went  out  fidgeting  again. 
And  the  others  had  no  speech.  Corbett's  eyes  were 
staring  at  the  table  all  disarrayed;  they  lifted  pres- 
ently, slowly  across,  rising  to  meet  his  wife's;  and 
steadily  they  looked  at  each  other,  so  still,  so 
moveless,  that  it  was  as  if  a  finger  pointed  at  them, 
jeering. 

And  while  they  stared  at  each  other  the  old 
woman's  dry  throat  clucked:  "This  house — it's 
possessed — seems  like.  A  burglar — what  next?" 
Then,  looking  at  Rand's  son  across  the  table,  she 
cried  perplexedly :  "Lord  bless  us — there's  blood  on 
you — your  sleeve !" 

The  wife  whirled,  glanced  down.  Beside  her,  by 
his  chair,  the  stuff  had  dripped.  It  lay  a  glassy  little 
pool  upon  the  polished  floor. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  the  hall  without,  the  altercation  of  the  discov- 
ery went  on.  Within,  the  eyes  of  Stephen  Rand, 
of  old  John,  of  Corbett  and  his  wife  and  mother 
were  on  the  newer  guest.  He  lifted  his  left  arm  a 
trace  after  the  old  woman's  exclamation,  to  show  a 
slight  stain. 

"Merely  that  I  scratched  myself,"  he  said,  "no 
matter."  And,  apart  from  the  wife  staring  down 
past  her  skirts  at  the  blood  by  his  chair,  they  thought 
this  all — they  resumed  their  intent  on  the  voices 
without.  John  Bride  rose  and  went  to  peer  cur- 
iously; and  then  at  the  heavy  tone  of  the  stableman, 
Terance,  the  host  followed,  coming  to  lean  feebly 
on  John's  arm  at  the  door  and  look  out.  "What's 
this?  A  man — in  my  house?" 

"He  said  he  was  here  to  see  a  friend,  sir — that's 
all  he'd  say." 

"And  hurt,  too — a  youngish  fellow  with  a  bad 
face,  but  I  can  not  think  a  thief,"  said  Terance. 

Beyond  they  had  him — a  little  fearful  and  dis- 
ordered group  of  servants  about  a  figure  urged  on  by 
the  stableman's  hand  on  his  wounded  shoulder,  twist- 
ing and  halting  and  shuffling  with  the  pain.  They 

197 


198  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

stopped  him  before  the  superintendent  and  his  wife 
and  the  two  old  men  in  the  door,  Terance  still 
gripping  his  coat.  Karasac  faced  them  all,  sullen,  a 
brute  trapped. 

In  the  dining-room  the  wife  leaned  forward,  her 
eyes  on  Corbett.  It  would  seem  that  in  her  the  press 
of  sensation  was  dead — a  woman  of  stone  but  with 
eyes  that  could  flit,  watch,  fear,  hate.  By  her  Rand 
was  sunk,  his  face  complacent;  you  would  have 
thought  him  a  mathematician  absorbed  in  an  ab- 
straction. 

"Lord  bless  us,"  put  in  the  old  mother;  "a  bur- 
glar!" 

Corbett  rose  and  pushed  out,  as  a  man  will  crowd 
to  see  a  killing,  though  it  twists  his  brain  with  its 
horror:  "Stay  here,  mother,"  he  said,  but  she  went 
after;  she  put  her  arm  about  him  in  the  doorway, 
and  they,  with  the  others,  watched  the  little  drama 
beyond. 

Hayes  was  saying:  "A  friend? — come  to  see  a 
friend?" 

"That's  what  he  said,  sir."  The  maid  gasped  and 
went  on,  gathering  a  pride  in  telling:  "Alice  saw 
him  first  trying  to  get  to  the  door  to  the  laundry.  He 
must  have  come  down  the  stairs  from  the  wing." 

"And  he  had  a  knife,  sir,  and  when  I  called  at 
him  he  ran,  and  when  I  reached  him  he  whirled  and 
struck.  He  hit  the  wood,  sir,  and  it  went  that  close 
to  me !  I  knocked  him  down  and  he  howled — then 
we  saw  he  was  hurt — his  arm  in  splints,  sir." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  199 

"I  do  believe  wrapped  in  linen  of  this  house,"  the 
maid  put  in.  They  stood  in  triumphant  apprehen- 
sion about  him.  Beside  big  Terance  the  prisoner 
was  a  weakling,  disheveled,  in  a  coat  too  large,  his 
narrow  shoulders  drawn,  his  thin  face  a  wedge 
thrust  out,  his  rat  eyes  moving  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  an  animal's  awaiting  the  kill. 

"A  man  caught  here — wounded  in  my  house?" 
the  justice  echoed.  "A  friend — to  see  a — friend? 
What's  this?" 

They  heard  the  tinkle  of  falling  silver;  the  swish 
of  a  skirt — Demetra  had  come  out,  leaving  Rand 
now  alone  by  his  father's  board  in  his  apathy.  The 
wife  faced  the  group,  the  captured  man,  old  Bullock, 
the  wan  light  on  his  bald  head,  Terance  with  his 
gray  side  chops,  the  fluttered  maids  beyond.  And 
above  them,  on  the  stairs,  with  a  note-book  in  her 
hand,  was  Louise  Hergov,  who  must  have  heard  the 
gabble  and  the  fighting  somehow.  She  was  still, 
watching,  listening.  From  her  vantage  it  must,  in- 
deed, have  been  a  stage  of  players  there  below. 

The  justice  turned  to  Mrs.  Ennisley :  "My  dear, 
it  must  have  been  the  noise  you  heard — the  man 
getting  in." 

"There  was  no  chance,"  said  Terance.  "No,  he's 
been  here  long — that  I'm  sure  of." 

The  wife  tried  to  move  against  their  questioning: 
"A  noise  ?"  she  said  faintly.  "Yes — I — remember." 

The  captured  man  looked  at  her,  a  long  disdain. 
She  cleared  the  hair  from  her  eyes  to  watch  him, 


200          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

his  glance  going  now  to  Corbett,  a  stubborn  ques- 
tion, a  wonder — his  hand  moving  troubledly  in  the 
grotesque  pockets.  Once  he  was  about  to  speak,  his 
lips  baring,  and  then  he  relapsed  to  his  sullen  defense 
against  them,  the  hostiles  who  would  slay  him  on  a 
word  of  the  law. 

"The  police,  sir?"  said  Bullock.  "Sara  tried  to 
telephone  at  once  and  it  wouldn't  work.  She's  wait- 
ing to  get  central." 

"Wait!"  muttered  the  justice.  "This— let  us  see." 

The  manager's  wife  had  waddled  near  in  an  ex- 
cess of  curiosity :  "Byron,  he's  like  a  mill-hand — his 
shirt,  the  kind  the  store  sells  them.  He  looks  like 
one  of  those  foreigners — such  a  dogged  look — do 
you  notice,  Hayes?" 

They  stirred  with  an  articulation  or  so,  one  could 
not  have  told  from  whom.  The  superintendent  came 
nearer.  "By  George,"  he  said.  "He  has!  And  his 
face — they  get  that  way,  raised  in  the  mills — a  sort 
of  hound  type — look  at  him !" 

"Does  he  speak  English?"  put  in  his  wife. 
"What?  A  little — broken  you  say,  Terance?  By- 
ron, he's  a  Polack — a  mill-man.  God  help  us — here? 
For  what?"  She  half  shrieked — "To  assassinate  you 
— the  judge — to  blow  us  up !" 

"Preposterous!"  the  justice  answered.  "He's  a 
mere  boy — hurt — probably  escaping  from  the  po- 
lice." 

Hayes  seized  the  heavy  and  ungainly  coat,  drew  it 
aside :  "He's  wearing  one  of  the  shirts  we  sell  the 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          201 

hands — and  his  shoes — company  store  shoes!  And 
he's  a  Polack.  Here — speak !"  he  growled. 

The  other  said  nothing;  they  shook  him  again — 
he  muttered  in  pain  and  glared — nothing  more.  "I 
tell  you,"  went  on  the  mill  manager,  "here  in  Chi- 
cago is  a  fugitive  from  Randsville — Good  God!  I 
see!  The  anarchist  who  escaped!" 

His  wife's  voice  came  shrilly:  "The  papers  said 
one  was  headed  North- — Karaski — something  like 
that!"  She  bawled  her  genius  of  intuition.  They 
crowded  nearer — except  the  doctor  and  his  wife 
and  mother;  and  beyond,  in  the  other  room,  Rand 
the  impassive,  sunk  huge,  gross,  in  his  chair. 

"Eh?— man?"  John  Bride  muttered.  "Can  it  be?" 

"Byron,"  cackled  the  manager's  wife,  "the  po- 
lice !  An  anarchist — " 

"Be  still,"  the  judge  said  gravely.  "Let's  see  to 
this.  You've  come  here,  man — for  what?  To  see 
a  friend,  you  said.  Why,  that  can't  be !" 

"Look  at  his  hands!"  Hayes  tore  one  from  its 
concealment.  ((A  mill-man's  hands — they  get  that 
way  before  they're  fourteen.  And  who'd  he  come 
to  see?  Look  here — his  shirt — it's  blackened  by 
powder — torn  and  bloody.  That's  what  the  papers 
said — the  dynamiter  was  wounded !" 

"But  here — "  the  judge  put  in;  he  turned,  he 
swept  the  circle  of  faces ;  he  looked  aloft  at  Louise 
Hergov  on  the  stairs.  Then  he  made  a  gesture  to 
the  servants  that  they  knew  in  the  recluse:  "You 
will  go." 


202  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"But,  sir/'  Terance  blurted,  "the  police—" 

"Not  a  word  yet.  We  shall  attend  to  this.  Go, 
all  of  you." 

They  went  with  the  slow  feet  of  the  dispersed  and 
underling.  The  old  man  was  tottering  on  as  if  to 
close  the  door  behind  them,  when  Demetra  flashed 
ahead  of  him  and  did  it,  then  turned  facing  them, 
but  with  no  word.  It  seemed  they  all  were  struck 
dumb.  Then  Hayes  whirled  with  the  quickness  of 
an  inquisitor  of  the  third  degree :  "Karaski — that's 
your  name — and  you're  the  dynamiter — By  God, 
yes!" 

The  prisoner  merely  sneered.  His  eyes  wandered 
over  them,  the  pallor  of  the  judge,  the  old  woman 
with  her  arm  about  her  son,  the  wife  silhouetted 
against  the  door  to  the  servants'  passage,  John  Bride 
with  his  red  face. 

"I  tell  you,  it's  plain,"  Hayes  said.  "The  bomb- 
thrower  fled  here  seeking  help — a  friend.  In  your 
house,  Judge  Rand — a  justice  of  the  supreme  court !" 

"Concealed  here,"  whipped  in  his  wife —  "the 
house  linen  on  his  wounds.  There's  that  great  barn 
of  a  wing  unused — never  visited."  She  turned  to 
Corbett  Ennisley:  "Professor,  you  know  all  that 
scum  that  used  to  gather  at  your  college  settlement 
— the  foreigners,  children  and  men.  Was  this  man 
one  of  them?" 

The  professor,  his  hands  folded,  stood  by  the 
door.  Before  he  could  speak,  Hayes  added :  "Yes 
— do  you  know  him?" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          203 

Corbett  looked  from  him  to  the  prisoner,  their 
eyes  met  full,  steadily.  Rand  had  come  with  his 
curious  stealth,  was  peering  past  John's  head  to  the 
center  of  the  group.  The  prisoner's  gaze  wandered 
stupidly  from  one  to  another. 

"No,"  retorted  the  doctor,  "I  do  not  know  the 
man." 

"I  think,"  JHayes  snarled,  "he  knows  you.  His 
eyes — watching  all  the  time." 

"Corbetty,"  quavered  the  old  mother,  clinging  to 
him,  "whatever  is  the  matter?" 

He  seemed  to  feel  they  knew  he  lied :  He  went 
before  the  prisoner:  "I  never  saw  the  man,"  he  re- 
peated. He  saw  his  wife's  eyes  glitter  as  he  turned 
aside.  Louise,  on  the  staircase,  stirred.  Over  John 
Bride's  shoulder  Rand's  full  face  had  a  smile. 

John  came  forward,  touched  the  captured  man's 
sleeve ;  he  was,  in  fact,  to  all  of  them,  a  sort  of  new 
and  hunted  animal.  "This  coat,"  John  said —  "it's 
a  bit  odd — I've  seen  it  somewhere — a  big  man's 
friendly  coat  for  sic  a  shrunk  boy's  body." 

"Yes,"  the  manager's  wife  put  in,  "a  hunting 
coat.  I've  seen  it  too — and  where?  Mr.  Rand,  you 
had  one  like  it." 

"Eh— Lord!"  John  said.   "I  think  so!" 

"My  son,"  the  justice  turned —  "your  coat — has 
it  been  stolen?"  He  started  at  the  other's  face: 
"Is  this  it?" 

"Honored  Judge — "  the  man  bowed  gravely — 
you  would  have  said  he  had  rehearsed  the  part,  that 


204  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

he  had  found  by  study  the  sonorous  music  of  his 
voice  for  this  climacteric —  "it  is."  He  raised  his 
right  hand  open  to  the  captured  man —  "A  gift, 
merely." 

"You  gave  it  to  him?"  Hayes  laughed.  "A  mill- 
boy — bomb-thrower  flying  for  his  life — coming  here 
— hidden — by  a  friend.  Who  else,  besides  myself 
and  Doctor  Ennisley,  has  been  at  the  mills — who'd 
be  his  friend?" 

The  stranger's  eyes  went  always  with  their  shift 
to  Corbett,  to  Demetra,  and  back  at  his  captors. 
He  had  become  bewildered;  he  watched  Rand  fas- 
cinated ;  once  he  muttered,  cursed,  shook  his  head. 

"Your  coat,  my  son?"  the  judge  went  on — then 
sharply — "Man,  you're  bleeding — there,  and  on  the 
floor!  What's  this?" 

Their  eyes  were  all  on  him.  He  heard  the  wife 
behind  him  at  the  door,  whisper,  sob.  They  were  too 
intent  on  him  to  notice.  He  raised  his  hand  with 
some  airy  assurance  as  an  orator  who  had  at  last  got 
the  attention  of  each  auditor. 

"We  fought,"  he  went  on  gravely.    "He  would 
leave  the  house  and  I  tried  to  stop  him.  Eh — this  ?— 
a  scratch,  merely." 

"You  knew  he  was  here?  Concealed  him?" 
Hayes'  voice  was  incredulous.  "Look  here — he's  a 
mill-hand — he  knows  the  doctor,  too !" 

His  jerky  questions  faltered  before  Rand's  gray 
eye,  the  lift  of  his  amused  lip,  his  bald  indifference: 
"I  can  not  answer  for  that." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  205 

"Rand,"  the  father  muttered,  staring,  "you  can 
not  mean  he  came  here  to  see  you — his  friend?" 

"You  are  a  wise,  an  upright  judge.  The  very 
same." 

They  fell  back  from  him.  Hayes  laughed  briefly, 
unbelievingly.  "You  fool,"  he  said, — "to  play  at 
this!"  He  turned  to  Karasac,  seizing  roughly  his 
coat,  giving  it  a  jerk  that  made  the  mill-boy  twinge 
with  agony.  "Here — the  truth — you  can  tell  it — 
you!" 

The  prisoner's  restless  eye  had  not  left  Rand ;  he 
stepped  before  them,  looking  now  at  Corbett,  then 
at  Demetra.  He  seemed  to  find  some  course  through 
the  mystery;  his  eyes  beckoned  her:  "Brot!"  he  be- 
gan, and  half -pointed — "Brot!" 

Her  cry  stopped  him — a  ^ngle  word  in  Polish, 
like  his  own.  They  started.  "My  dear?"  the  old 
judge  muttered. 

"To  see  me,"  Rand  broke  in,  and  smiled :  "Merely 
that." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  Hayes  retorted.  "Explain 
it,  then!" 

"Go  to  my  rooms.  A  man  has  slept  there  four 
nights.  You  will  find  there  food — I  brought  it  from 
John  Bride's.  .  .  .  The  old  man  will  tell  you." 

"God  help  him — yes !"  the  Scotchman  answered. 
"For  a  dog,  he  said." 

"Go  on,"  the  father  said  patiently.  "Where  did 
you  meet  him,  then?" 

"The  road.    I  was  with  him  once — in  New  Or- 


206  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

leans.  He  can  tell  you — on  the  levees  there — he  was 
a  common  tramp — and  I  ? — well — that  is  my  affair." 

"But  this— an  anarchist ?— the  mills?" 

"Yes — how  came  he  to  find  you  out  the  other 
night?" 

"A  comradeship.  I  have  belonged  to  the  circle. 
He  will  tell  you  he  was  sent.  Engle,  the  New  York 
comrade — Breitmann — I  know  them  well  enough. 
You  know  we  have  an  organization." 

Hayes  started  from  him :  "Good  God !  You  ask 
us  to  believe  you?" 

"A  member  of  an  anarchistic  circle?"  The  fa- 
ther was  steel  in  spring.  "Go  on !" 

"Eh — on  ?  There  is  no  more.  The  boy  came  here. 
The  comrades  South  have  kept  in  touch  with  me. 
When  they  had  put  through  the  thing  they  hurried 
the  tool  off — he  was  directed  here.  I  had  told  them 
I  should  be  here.  *?t  is  program,  merely." 

They  stood  back,  stupefied. 

"You  ask  us  to  believe?"  Hayes  muttered.  "Here 
— you!"  He  turned  on  the  mill-hand.  But  Rand 
was  before  him,  taking  Karasac's  arm  gently,  raising 
it  as  he  spoke :  "Speak,  then.  Quit  playing  the  fool, 
or  you'll  swing.  Speak — Rand — Rand — friend — 
brother!" 

The  youth  looked  about,  seeking  other  eyes;  he 
met  stony  faces,  alien,  hostile.  He  nodded,  he 
grinned  in  a  sickly  assent :  "Yass — Meest  Rand — he 
know!" 

Hayes  swung  on  him:  "You  lie!" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          207 

Karasac  smiled  his  cunning,  his  eye  lit  on  the  sis- 
ter— clothed,  rich,  beautiful — all  that  the  great 
world  held  of  life  was  about  her,  it  seemed;  his 
dulled  face  lit  again  with  cunning :  " Yass — Rand — • 
brother — comrade.  I  come — se-eck  heem."  Then 
he  extended  his  hand  in  a  vain  enjoyment.  "Yass, 
Karasac,  ze  anarchist — hang  me!  Karasac — hang 
me!" 

They  looked  at  his  blatant  howling;  then  at  Rand 
in  his  smiling.  "Is  that  enough  ?"  he  went  on  easily. 
"It  is  a  long  story.  I  have  been  with  them — yes. 
One  of  the  San  Francisco  group.  And  this  boy, 
here — a  hunted  beast  coming  to  me — it  is  my  affair 
—a  comrade — a  brother-beast,  here  in  this  house." 

He  overbore  them,  seeming  to  find  a  surpassing 
pleasure  in  the  situation.  The  justice  did  not  stir 
for  a  time;  then  his  voice  came,  a  mutter,  an  at- 
tempt to  give  it  its  old  coldness  and  control.  "Well, 
the  thing  is  like  you.  I  can  not  tell  what  truth  is  in 
you,  but  your  life — out  of  the  darkness  you've  come 
from — the  thing  is  not  beyond  you." 

The  old  man  was  groping  to  a  chair,  he  sat  down 
weakly.  "Out  of  the  dark  you  came  to  me,"  he 
whispered,  "the  dark — " 

The  manager's  wife  came  nearer.  "Judge  Rand, 
the  police — " 

The  father  mumbled:  they  could  not  hear;  they 
clung  one  to  the  other,  dulled,  confused.  Byron 
Hayes  said :  "Yes,  man — the  law — " 

Rand's  grimace  stopped  him.    "Eh? — the  law — 


2o8  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

kill  the  beast — strangle  him.  The  law — what  did  it 
ever  do  for  him — a  boy  of  the  mills,  a  rat  night 
long  in  the  spool  rooms?  Who  made  him,  then? 
The  law?  The  schools  and  doctrines?  You? — I? 
We  took  our  profit,  as  the  law  directed — from  him." 

The  manager's  wife  shifted.  "You  defend 
him—" 

He  went  to  her  with  the  serious,  high  pose  of  a 
preacher;  he  reached  to  touch  a  necklace  that  she 
wore.  "In  the  mills  they  made  him  for  you,  madam. 
Eh? — on  your  breast  you  wear  a  stone — who  won 
its  light  for  you  ?  Its  gleam  ?  A  little  profit  wrung 
from  a  child's  soul — a  dividend  from  his  needs,  his 
dreams,  his  hopes — to  make  what,  eh?  Your  neck- 
lace, madam." 

She  would  not  listen  to  his  voice  filling  the  room 
with  its  music,  his  actor's  ease,  his  smile  a  pity  on 
them  you  would  not  forget. 

The  father  muttered  brokenly:  "My  son,  will 
you  be  still?" 

"You  fool,"  sneered  the  manager,  "Judge  Rand, 
the  police — " 

Demetra  had  come  nearer :  "No — no — "  she  said 
as  if  her  soul  was  on  the  rack. 

Hayes  moved,  to  the  door.  "Judge  Rand,  we'd 
best  take  no  chances.  We'd  best  telephone — " 

The  justice  rose.  "Yes,  the  law  must  take  its 
course." 

But  the  son  proposed,  with  the  inconsequentiality 
of  a  parlor  conundrum,  another  course. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          209 

"Come  now,  let  us  be  reasonable.  Here  are  we 
all.  Here  is  this  man  by  whom  our  fortunes,  repu- 
tations, peace  of  mind  are  endangered.  He  has 
broken  our  laws,  he  has  outraged  us — he  admits  it. 
Well,  then,  why  the  police,  and  a  trial  with  all  its 
clamor  and  sensation  merely  to  kill  the  fellow? 
Here  we  are  gathered,  the  law,  society,  commerce, 
the  schools,  all  our  respectablenesses,  and  worthi- 
nesses represented;  and  here's  the  beast  who  defies 
us,  weak,  ignorant,  alone,  shut  in  by  the  walls  of 
this  house.  He  can't  resist  us — let  us  then  try 
him,  and  condemn  him,  strangle  him  where  he 
stands." 

They  were  speechless.  He  went  on  with  serious 
good  nature.  "What  more  reasonable,  safe,  cheaply 
done?  Why  we  are  saved — all  of  us,  not  a  smirch 
on  our  damned  good  names — eh  ?  The  justice  shall 
condemn,  Hayes  and  the  doctor  shall  hold  him,  the 
women  look  on  and  approve  and  I — I'll  cut  his 
throat." 

The  women_raised  a  cry,  shuddering.  The  men 
turned  heavy  faces  to  him. 

"You  fool,"  the  mill  manager  said,  "be  still. 
Judge,  we'll  turn  him  over  to  the  law." 

But  again  the  son  intercepted.  "I  think  not.  I've 
made  you  a  proposal,  reasonable,  secret,  appealing 
to  any  one  of  taste,  rather  than  all  the  publicity  that 
will  otherwise  follow.  But  you  won't :  then  let  me 
say,  call  the  police,  and  I'll  pollute  your  name  to 
Heaven!  You,  Stephen  Rand,  justice  of  the  su- 


210          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

preme  court,  whose  son  is  Rand,  the  anarchist — the 
red  brother !" 

Rand  paused.  He  looked  at  the  silent  father. 
The  bigness  of  the  thing  was  on  them.  Half  con- 
cealed by  the  shadows  of  the  staircase  Corbett  had 
sunk  to  a  seat.  His  mother's  arm  was  about  his 
neck;  her  bewildered  comforting  in  his  ear,  at  what, 
for  what,  she  did  not  know.  Only  this — her  boy  was 
sunk,  dumb,  stricken,  a  little  apart  from  this  talking 
— her  boy  in  his  proud  manhood. 

"My  name!"  the  father  answered.  "What  is  it? 
My  wasted  life!"  He  turned  aside;  he  muttered: 
"Ah,  well — give  me  a  moment !"  And  then  he  turned 
again  to  them:  "My  friends,  will  you  go?  I  wish 
to  be  alone  to  think  of  this." 

Suddenly  past  them  the  wife  flashed,  passing  the 
preacher,  to  come  kneeling  by  the  old  man's  chair, 
to  touch  his  hand:  "You'll  not  believe  him — no! 
you'll  not  believe  him." 

"What  else?  My  son,  is  not  this  true?" 

"It's  true." 

Hayes  came  again  to  Karasac  and  caught  his  coat 
with  a  jerk  that  made  the  wounded  man  reel  and 
scream  his  agony.  "Speak — is  this  true?" 

The  mill-hand  recovered,  sobbing,  biting  back  his 
pain.  "Yass — brother !" 

The  old  man  rose,  tottered  to  the  door  and 
pointed.  "Go,"  he  said — "my  friends — all.  And 
you'll  not  speak  of  this.  I'd  be  alone." 

They  moved  to  go,  but  the  manager  pointed  to 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  211 

the  prisoner:  "Judge  Rand — this  man — a  crazed 
criminal — " 

The  justice  had  a  touch  of  his  old  courtly  bearing, 
his  frail  dignity :  "Go — all.  I  am  answerable." 

"If  he  escapes.  There's  the  interests  of  society — • 
the  law — property!" 

The  old  judge  straightened;  he  was  again,  indeed, 
the  judge.  "My  countrymen  have  entrusted  these 
to  me,  have  they  not,  for  thirty  years?" 

They  felt  the  rebuke.  With  a  gesture  Hayes  left 
him,  his  wife  following;  brother  John  hesitating 
with  a  coo,  and  then,  at  Stephen's  look,  departing. 
The  wife  had  not  stirred;  Corbett  was  sunk,  his 
hands  in  his  hair,  his  mother's  arm  about  him. 

"Doctor,"  the  justice  gravely  said,  "you  heard 
me,  did  you  not  ?" 

The  doctor  rose ;  they  heard  his  mighty  sigh,  ex- 
plosive, as  if  some  inordinate  issue  in  him  had 
flamed  to  vapor  and  must  be  exhaled.  He  looked  at 
the  wife,  not  at  the  son,  nor  at  the  mill-hand. 

"Demetra!"  he  cried,  and  held  his  hand  to  her, 
moving  away,  the  mother  still  clinging  to  him. 

The  wife,  it  seemed,  was  stupefied.  She  stood  and 
heard  him  go,  the  old  woman  clinging,  her  quaver- 
ing words  at  his  ear.  Their  footsteps  went  on,  drag- 
ging, weary,  old,  and  she  did  not  move.  The  judge's 
courtly  gesture  came  to  her  again ;  his  bow,  stately 
for  so  frail  and  aged  a  man. 

"My  dear,"  he  gently  said,  "go,  leave  us." 

And  then  she  went  hurriedly  after;  in  the  door- 


212  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

way,  her  hand  to  her  mouth,  as  if  setting  her  teeth 
in  it,  she  blurted:  "He  would  not  speak — not 
speak !" 

In  the  rear  hall  she  came  on  them,  and  if  one 
could  shriek  below  the  breath,  she  did  it.  as  she 
took  her  husband's  arm:  "Not  speak — not  speak!'' 

"Did  you?"  he  whispered,  as  the  mother  stupidly 
gazed  at  them.  And  he  went  on  with  his  women 
hanging  to  him,  his  face  pale,  but  hardening,  a 
mighty  strength  rising  in  him  from  some  vision 
stretching  from  these  walls  to  all  the  land,  its  huge- 
ness, its  mystery,  its  purpose;  from  all  the  world  of 
underrunning  life,  struggling,  beaten,  failed,  to 
which  he  could  bring  a  man's  gift  of  hand  and  brain 
and  heart — from  all  this  came  faith  and  a  fighting 
ardor.  There  was  no  sacrifice  for  it  too  great — he 
belonged  to  them,  the  coming  ages — that  was  his 
work,  his  life.  He  said  to  her,  steadily: 

"I  did  not  speak.  There's  a  greater  thing  .  .  . 
let  him  accept — I  accept." 

The  wife  followed  him  with  her  inarticulate  mut- 
ter. 

Back  in  the  front  hall  the  others  had  not  moved. 
Louise  Hergov  on  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  silent,  un- 
seen in  the  shadows,  looked  down  on  them  still,  the 
father,  the  son — and  in  the  middle  of  the  space  under 
the  light — the  beast  watching  them. 


I 
CHAPTER  XV 

THEY  stood  within  the  lighted  hall,  the  father 
and  son,  and  a  little  way  from  them  the  mill- 
hand  in  the  blood  and  stink  of  his  unwashed  clothes. 
When  he  moved,  surprised  that  his  guards  had  left 
him,  the  son,  with  an  upraised  hand,  commanded  his 
silence.  He  muttered  sullenly,  but  obeyed. 

The  justice  faced  them  slowly,  dumb,  it  seemed 
that  the  ironic  hand  of  coincidence  had  at  this  hour, 
this  place,  thrust  itself  upon  his  forgiveness;  that 
behind  a  man's  fairest  endeavor  lurks  for  ever 
chance,  the  blind  devil  whose  grimace  none  may 
exorcise.  But  he  came  from  this  to  his  simple  dig- 
nity; he  said  calmly:  "My  son,  what  is  there  to 
say?" 

"We've  never  been  given  to  much  speech,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

"True— true.  There  is  little  need."  The  father's 
step  seemed  uncertain,  his  hand  shaken,  belying  his 
hard  face.  "To-night  I  summoned  you.  It  cost  me 
much  to  do  that — a  human  feeling  that  perhaps  is 
weakness.  You  have  told  me  this  strange  story,  but 
I  can  not  be  surprised,  knowing  what  your  life  has 

213 


214  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

been — your  words,  your  philosophy — your  truth, 
you  say." 

"Simple  enough.  Submission  is  the  arch  sin  of 
the  world — I've  submitted  to  nothing.  I  regard  you 
and  your  law-mongering  and  profit-taking  as  rather 
infamous,  but  let  that  be — we  can  go  our  ways." 

The  father  made  a  pathetic  gesture,  and  went  on 
in  his  worn,  even  voice:  "It's  curious  that  we've 
come  to  this — the  last  of  my  line  dying  out  in  you — 
an  unbelievable  figure."  He  looked  with  some  fas- 
cination at  the  son,  his  graven  face  attentive.  "Well, 
go.  No  law  can  punish  you  as  you  have  me.  I  think 
I  can  stop  the  mouths  of  my  friends.  Let  the  thing 
be  buried — take  this  boy  and  go." 

With  that  he  turned  his  back  and  was  going 
slowly  out  when  Rand's  voice  came. 

"A  moment?"  He  touched  the  old  man's  arm 
lightly.  "I'll  go,  but  there's  a  fancy  of  mine  I  might 
explain.  The  mills — what  will  you  do  with  them?" 

The  justice  did  not  answer.  "See  here,"  Rand 
went  on,  "I've  given  up  much,  and  it's  a  rough  road 
I'll  travel.  I'm  not  made  for  your  harness,  but 
here's  the  mills — and  our  little  beast -brother,  eh? 
Look  at  him — he's  not  pretty.  Well,  if  this  fellow 
Ennisley  knows  how  to  breed  a  better  look  in  the 
beast's  face,  in  God's  name,  let  him!  If  the  little 
rats  down  there  are  hungry,  feed  them — what  more 
simple  and  better  for  you  to  be  about?  But  it's  not 
a  job  for  me — I'd  not  make  a  clerk  or  money-coun- 
ter— I'd  rather  tramp  first.  But  the  mill  rats — let 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          215 

this  professor  hammer  away  at  them — I'm  damned 
if  I  care  about  the  money.  There's  no  man  in  all 
America  can  understand-  that,  but  damn  me,  if  I 
want  the  money!  I  can't  think  of  a  thing  it  would 
buy  for  me." 

The  justice  did  not  answer.  Rand  saw  his  white 
hair  gleam  under  the  light  by  the  stairs.  Then  by 
his  side  he  found  the  mill-boy,  staring,  brushing  the 
matted  hair  from  his  eyes,  in  a  frenzy  to  read  the 
master's  face.  "You  save  me,"  he  whispered,  "and 
you  lie — lie !" 

The  older  man  seemed  to  find  a  humor  in  this 
groping  grotesque;  his  hand  went  to  the  other's 
shoulder — he  went  on  with  more  gravity,  after  his 
instant  study — "Boy,  did  you  ever  see  the  West?" 

The  other  grunted,  shaken  in  bewilderment. 

"It's  big.  There's  no  mill  smoke — a  man  can 
breathe."  He  paused,  his  great  voice,  low,  intent: 
"Wait  for  me  outside.  I  want  a  moment  here  alone." 

The  other  followed  his  motion;  he  went  to  the 
door,  looked  back,  his  eyes  glittering  their  suspicion, 
their  hostile  dread;  then,  a  glance  without,  and  he 
stepped  to  the  balcony  to  the  rainy  night.  Rand 
saw  his  white  face  leer  once  at  the  small  side  win- 
dow, fitting  the  diamond  pane  for  an  instant,  an  evil 
picture  that  vanished. 

The  man  within  went  to  the  library.  He  saw 
once  in  the  reflecting  panels  his  presentment,  his 
evening  clothes,  his  swarthy  face  above — he  laughed 
with  some  complacence — then  was  stilled,  for  on 


216  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

him  and  this  human  note  there  came  the  disdain  of 
the  house,  its  hate  breathed  to  him.  From  here  he 
saw  across  the  hall  the  dining-room,  its  snowy 
cloth  disordered  above  a  flicker  of  candles,  the  chairs 
drawn  back,  the  dark  wainscoting,  a  jet  of  dulled 
metal  here,  there  upon  it — deserted,  emptied,  hollow. 
The  room,  its  gasping  lights,  the  great  hall  dark- 
ened to  the  turn  of  the  stairs — somewhere  on  all 
this  silence  the  faint  closing  of  a  door,  as  if  from 
the  house  the  last  living  had  fled,  as  though  from 
room  to  room  a  leper's  touch  had  hunted  them  to 
the  outside — that  was  all.  He,  alone,  was  here  cen- 
tered in  the  malign  watching  of  the  walls,  the  breath- 
ing of  their  hate  to  him. 

He  was  before  a  picture  indistinct  above  the  glass- 
imprisoned  books  when  Demetra  came.  He  must 
have  heard  her  skirts  rustling,  the  quickness  of  her 
step  down  the  front  way  flicking  the  stillness,  but  he 
had  not  turned  when  she  stopped  on  the  threshold. 
Once  she  tried  to  speak  and  failed  and  then  again, 
nervously,  an  odd,  brisk  note. 

-You— here?" 

He  checked  her:  "A  moment.  I  wished  to  be 
alone.  I  was  a  boy  here.  That  picture — "  he  indi- 
cated— "my  mother — the  fellow  who  painted  it 
caught  some  fantastic  trick  that  I  seem  to  remem- 
ber. There  is  a  covert  prophecy  in  the  smile.  I  can 
not  fathom  it.  It  has  for  me  the  quality  of  the 
Mona  Lisa — you  may  have  seen  it?  This  woman  I 
can  hardly  remember  has  an  odd  interest  to  me. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          217 

Eh  ? — there  are  some  queer  corners  in  these  cunning 
boxes  of  some  sort  of  stuff  we  call  brains." 

She  came  nearer,  disregarding  his  air  of  detached 
study  and  exploitation  of  the  portrait:  "Your  fa- 
ther?" She  breathed  it  low.  "He  sent  you  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Free?" 

"Free." 

She  almost  touched  him  wonderingly.  "And  my 
brother—free?" 

"Free  as  air — if  we  manage  to  escape." 

"You  escape?  You?  You've  done  nothing  in 
this !  You  mean  you'll  take  him.  Good  God — you've 
saved  him  for  what — where?" 

He  flicked  his  dead  ash  lightly.  "To  the  road,  I 
imagine.  I've  tramped  it.  There  is  a  thing  about  it 
that  is  beyond  you,  but  let  me  assure  you  I  have 
fared  worse  than  being  a  tramp.  From  the  street, 
if  one  is  a  supreme  egotist  and  has  a  sense  of  hu- 
mor, the  view  is  not  so  bad." 

"Ah,  you !"  she  cried,  "to  speak  so  now — in  this 
situation!" 

"What  now?  What  situation?" 

She  was  suffering;  she  turned;  she  whispered: 
"Going  back,  just  when  it  seemed  life  offered — 
when  there  seemed  light — a  way  for  you — " 

She  could  not  speak  further;  he  took  it  gravely 
up.  "That  is  a  concern.  To  give  up  Rand's  place — 
his  fortune  and  power — it  did,  indeed,  exasperate 
me.  But  the  chance  was  too  great." 


2i8  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Chance?"  She  answered  blindly,  at  his  medita- 
tion. 

"It  was  complete,  exquisite.  They  were  all  there 
— I  should  say,  all  America.  Hayes,  with  his  bour- 
geois importance  of  commerce,  his  wife  with  her 
pretense  of  caste  and  class  and  whatever  else  you 
women  love  to  make  of  it  when  your  husbands  are 
not  actually  scratching  the  soil  or  on  day-wages. 
Then,  the  doctor,  with  his  underdog  yelping,  and  the 
owl  consequentiality  of  Stephen — the  jurist  of  the 
Constitution,  who,  when  he  beats  the  puddle,  all  the 
other  frogs  shut  up.  Well,  there  they  were,  and  if 
the  devil  had  me  I  couldn't  have  resisted  the  oppor- 
tunity. To  walk  before  them  all  and  say  what  none 
wants  said — eh?  Could  I  resist  it — I,  who  am  the 
greatest  humorist  of  all  this  land  between  the  seas? 
To  make  them  crawl  away,  one  after  the  other — it 
was  an  achievement,  I  assure  you.  It  was  round, 
complete.  I  feel  now  the  jubilance  of  the  artist  who 
knows,  and  knows  he  knows." 

"You — you — "  she  quivered — "At  least  I  know 
you  saved  us."  She  slipped  close  to  him,  her  voice 
beating  out  a  passion  she  could  not  check — "Beneath 
it  all,  Herford,"  she  whispered  now,  "we  lied— 
we  dared  not  speak — and  you  saved  us!" 

"Eh? — a  pity!  Lying  is  a  dull  device  of  fools. 
Mine,  if  you  notice,  was  not  a  lie;  it  was  a  creation 
— distinctive,  matchless.  Look  at  it — hold  it  to  the 
light — it  will  dazzle,  you." 

She  writhed,  and  presently  she  said:   "If  one  but 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  219 

knew — but  knew!"  and  then  she  flashed  about  on 
him  in  a  sort  of  crouch :  "Herford,  what  did  I  ever 
mean  to  you  ?  Tell  me — I  was  a  child  then.  Tell  me 
—I  will  not  mind !" 

"I  told  you  once.  I  thought  I  saw  a  marvel  in 
you.  I  gave  you  all  I  could  to  bring  it  out.  I  am  for 
ever  pottering  around  with  the  souls  of  the  ones  who 
interest  me,  trying  to  see  what  stuff's  in  them.  But 
yours — eh?  It's  common  enough." 

She  drew  in  her  shoulders,  looked  about  as  if  in 
the  shadows  the  beast  lurked.  "Ah,  well,  one's  used 
to  being  lashed  by  you !  But  now  you  save  me.  Per- 
haps you  cared — perhaps  you  dreamed — " 

"Say  it  then,"  he  grinned :  "Might  have  loved  you, 
eh  ?  A  memory  ?  Look  here.  Did  you  actually  sup- 
pose I'd  give  tip  my  comfort  here — this  house,  the 
mills,  power — everything?  Come  now,  did  you  im- 
agine I'd  throw  it  all  up  for  a  woman?" 

She  went  to  the  table  and  sat  as  in  a  dream.  Then 
she  laughed  strangely :  "Go  on — let  me  hear  it  all !  I 
might  have  known — no,  it  wasn't  for  me !  Ah,  no — 
and  I  was  fool  enough  to  dream — " 

He  laughed.  "We  are  back,"  he  said,  "where 
women  bring  all  things.  Love — its  itch — its  little 
round  of  hot  lips,  and  hand  claspings — its  tears  and 
smiles  and  home-comings,  and  hidden  meanings  and 
pretty  ways — to  remember  one  day  with  a  flower, 
and  another  with  a  sweet.  How  marvelously  easy 
to  hold  you  subject  lifelong — a  word,  a  gesture — 
even  a  single  look  back  at  you  as  a  man  leaves  the 


220          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

house!  It  is  indeed  a  marvel.  I  shall  some  day 
make  a  study  of  that,  also." 

She  would  not  listen — it  was  as  if  she  was  beat- 
ing her  ears  as  she  rose,  throwing  out  her  arms. 
And  then  she  hurried  back  to  him  and  poured  to  him 
her  fierceness.  "You  come  back — out  of  the  dark — 
God  knows  from  where — but  you  come  back,  think- 
ing, hoping,  for  release.  Yes,  the  adventure's  about 
done — and  you — I've  seen  a  hunger  in  you — for  a 
hand  to  be  reached  to  you,  for  a  heart  to  forgive — 
to  love!  And  now — now — you  go — you  renounce 
this — you  go  back,  you  take  this  terror  from  me,  on 
yourself.  No,  I'll  not  believe — I'll  not!  It  was  for 
me — to  save  me,  Herford !"  And  her  passion  cried 
again :  "To  save  me !" 

He  had  for  her  the  smile  of  a  master  tolerant  of 
a  pupil's  lagging  imagination :  "At  least  do  not  be 
dull,"  he  commented. 

And  while  she  watched,  hardening  herself  against 
him,  Louise  Hergov  came  to  the  library.  She  was 
dressed  for  the  street,  her  jacket  closely  buttoned, 
her  short  skirt  showing  the  stout  boots.  She  looked 
at  them  with  a  studied  ignoring  of  what  she  must 
have  heard. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked  at  once. 

"Waiting  for  me,"  Rand  answered  briefly.  "Out- 
side." 

"He's  not  safe  on  the  street.  I  have  a  plan  for 
both  of  you  for  the  present.  If  he's  caught  every- 
thing's undone.  John  Bride's  is  hardly  the  place  for 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          221 

him,  but  there  are  my  rooms  unused  day  long — 
never  visited.  To-night  you'll  go  there." 

She  held  her  resolution  against  the  consciousness 
of  the  other  woman's  scrutiny.  And  then,  looking 
him  over,  she  added :  "You're  hurt.  Before  you  go 
we'd  better  fix  that  up.  I'll  get  water — where  are 
you  wounded?" 

He  smiled  at  her  so  long  that  her  pale  face  had 
to  evade  him.  Then  slowly  he  removed  his  coat,  the 
waistcoat;  then,  with  a  single  swift  movement  he 
tore  the  shirt  from  his  shoulders,  stripped  it  to  his 
waist  and  raised  his  left  arm.  Across  his  swart  side 
the  upthrust  of  the  knife  had  laid  a  six-inch  wound 
— between  the  bloody  lips  you  could  well-nigh  have 
placed  the  thickness  of  this  book. 

"Good  God,"  the  wife  cried,  "like  this — you've 
said  nothing!" 

"My  shoes,"  he  said,  with  some  concern,  "are  full 
of  it— listen  ?" 

The  girl  touched  him:  "Sit  down,"  she  spoke  in- 
differently, "I'll  get  water."  And  when  she  had 
gone  out.  the  wife  sat  across  from  him  muttering: 
"You  said  a  scratch — I  did  not  ask — you  said  it  was 
a  scratch." 

"No  matter.  A  few  ribs  hacked  up.  He  struck 
like  a  cat  merely  because  I  made  him  go  back  when 
he  insisted  on  leaving.  He  hates  me,  it  seems — the 
little  beast-brother.  He  is  quite  beyond  reason.  Eh? 
— well?  What  could  one  expect  of  a  little  beast- 
brother?" 


222  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

She  got  up,  stung.  Within  the  day  she  had  been 
transformed — her  luxurious  sureness,  ease,  domi- 
nance, flicked  out;  her  fears,  hopes,  passions  now 
naked — a  barbarian  mother,  a  woman  of  the  tribes. 

Then  Louise  came  back  quietly  with  her  basin 
from  the  rear  house  regions.  She  went  directly  to 
him,  knelt  and  with  a  towel  touched  the  gap  the 
knife  had  plowed.  The  wife  leaned  to  watch.  The 
cloth  in  a  minute  was  blood-soaked;  she  used  then 
his  shirt — it,  too,  was  filled,  but  she  sponged  and 
cleaned  the  bulge  of  the  flesh,  he,  meantime,  with 
some  new  curiosity,  looking  down  at  her  intent,  then 
across  at  Demetra  in  her  chair. 

"I'm  afraid  it  won't  stop  easily,"  Louise  said. 
"It's  not  terribly  deep,  but  your  arm  moving  so 
keeps  it  bleeding,  and  it'll  be  hard  to  bandage." 

"Do  your  best,"  he  directed  complacently. 

She  pressed  the  wound  together,  held  it  with  the 
shirt  fragment,  then  looked  about.  The  other  wom- 
an came  to  bend  near.  She  had  a  horror  of  blood. 
Louise's  quietness  in  the  task  was  to  her  incredible. 
"Hold  this,"  the  Jew  girl  commanded,  and  Demetra 
placed  her  hand  upon  the  bandage.  "Stand  up," 
Louise  said,  and  he  rose,  lifted  his  arm  and  waited. 
He  seemed  huge  with  some  enjoyment.  A  Roman 
of  the  days  before  Caesar,  back  from  a  field  with  the 
triumph  of  a  wound,  could  not  have  bulked  higher 
among  his  slaves  and  women  with  their  cloths  and 
ointments  than  did  he.  The  wife,  her  hand  upon  his 
side,  trembled.  The  girl  had  knelt  away  from  them ; 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  223 

she  tore  the  hem  of  her  underskirt  from  its  encir- 
cling breadth. 

'This  will  hold  it,"  she  reached  the  laced  thing 
about  him  and  about,  binding  it  close  and  asking :  "Is 
it  tight— too  tight?" 

"No/'  he  said,  and  then  checked  the  tying  of  the 
knot  and  looked  down  at  her.  "A  moment — why 
are  you  doing  this  ?" 

"You  must  get  away/'  she  answered  composedly; 
"you  can't  lose  any  more  blood." 

"Beyond  that,"  he  went  on — "what?" 

"This  Karasac,"  she  retorted,  "he  must  be  got 
away.  It's  the  first  duty." 

He  grimaced :  "I  don't  like  that  word — it's  a  dog's 
whine." 

"O  words — what  matter!" 

"Words  are  the  most  important  matters.  With 
them  I  am  beating  you  two  women  into  something 
you  did  not  dream  was  in  you.  I  am  clearing  the 
way  for  you — you  will  in  the  end  thank  me  for  your 
souls." 

"Come  on,"  said  Louise  patiently.  "There's  dan- 
ger here." 

The  wife  stood  staring  after  them  as  he  gravely 
offered  his  arm  to  the  girl  on  the  wet  steps.  When 
they  had  gone  she  stood  looking  at  the  blood  and 
water  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

AT  midnight  they  were  in  Miss  Hergov's  flat  in 
John  Bride's  block,  wet  all  from  the  spring 
night  blown  with  rain.  Old  John  was  with  them,  had 
waited,  in   fact,  on  the  coping  without  Stephen's 
yard. 

They  had  stilled  him  on  the  journey,  but  now  as 
the  four  were  about  the  cheap  little  round  table  in 
Miss  Hergov's  dining-room,  John  would  out  with  it. 

"I  was  trying  to  think — it's  wonderfu' — this 
night !  I  canna  believe  but  what  ye  lied." 

"You're  not  called  on  to  believe,"  retorted  Rand. 
"Old  man,  still  your  clatter." 

"I'm  fair  dazed.  Louise  will  have  to  think  for  ye. 
She's  takin'  danger  on  her,  but  it's  like  her.  It'd 
be  a  bad  day  the  law  had  word  of  this.  .  .  .  The 
professor  and  his  doctrines.  .  .  .  I'm  guessing 
much." 

Old  John  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  holding  his 
hat  and  staring  about.  Three  wet,  dank  men  they 
were,  watching  the  woman  untangle  the  veil  from 
her  hat  in  the  stuffy  room  opening  on  its  white  air 
shaft.  "My  word  for  it — this  flat  was  never  made 
for  a  biggish  family." 

224 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          225 

"They  are  to  stay  in  the  kitchen/'  she  answered. 
"It's  safer  and  is  little  used.  I'll  put  two  cots 
there.  There'll  be  plans  to  consider  later — where 
you  shall  go,  and  how."  She  turned  to  Rand :  "Is 
the  man  hungry?" 

His  eye  went  to  Karasac  by  the  wall,  thin,  mute, 
watching  ceaselessly  to  make  out  the  inexplicable 
thing.  "The  beast  is  hungry,"  retorted  Rand.  "Can't 
you  see  that?  He's  never  been  anything  else  but 
hungry.  And  anyhow,  if  he's  lived  the  life  of  the 
road  as  I  have,  he'll  know  enough  to  eat  when  it's 
about  whether  he's  hungry  or  not,  against  the  day 
when  food's  lacking.  Bring  on  your  stuff,  Jew  girl — 
whatever  it  is." 

She  was  shaking  the  water  from  her  skirt  hem. 
"John  Bride,"  she  said  clearly,  "will  you  keep  an 
eye  on  the  front  of  the  house  from  your  window 
now  and  then?  And  you  can  call  me  across  the 
court  from  your  flat  when  I'm  needed.  We'd  best 
lock  the  door  and  answer  no  one  while  they're  here." 

Old  John  went  to  her,  touched  her  shoulder. 
"Trust  Brother  John — I  canna  see  all,  but  this  I 
know — ye'r  at  a  service  for  Stephen's  good  name 
and  the  state's,  and  the  professor's  grand  work  be- 
yand — I  can  well  guess  the  bigness  to  ye  of  it  all !" 

But  old  John  was  much  bewildered;  again  he 
fumbled  his  hat,  staring  at  the  wounded  two — Rand 
with  his  swagger,  and  Karasac,  the  rat,  cornered, 
sullen.  When  she  took  them  to  the  kitchen  and 
showed  them  where,  among  its  clean  array,  they 


226          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

could  make  shift  to  sleep  on  the  cots,  John  went  out 
and  to  his  own  rooms  across  the  hall.  The  girl  left 
the  two  men  here,  sitting  each  on  his  bed  looking  at 
the  other — across  the  gulf  they  looked  one  to  the 
other. 

But  the  mill-man  would  not  speak  and  Rand  could 
not  endure  silence.  With  his  need  of  baiting  what- 
ever was  about  him  he  rose  presently  and  went  to 
the  other.  "Here,  you,"  he  began,  "I  can  forgive 
everything  except  dullness.  Your  wounds  are  smart- 
ing, but  so  are  mine.  Tell  me — what  do  you  think 
of  it  all?" 

The  dynamiter  grunted;  he  drew  a  sleeve  across 
his  dirty  brow,  brushing  the  black  hair  from  his 
eyes ;  he  cast  on  the  other  his  perplexed  disdain,  the 
hate  of  class,  the  fear  of  the  beaten:  "Ah,  Hell!" 
he  said,  "alldis— w'at?" 

The  bigger  man  turned  away  in  some  patient  in- 
trospect. "Beast-brother,  you've  got  to  the  bottom 
of  it  all  in  three  words — you  have  at  once  upset  all 
the  philosophies.  'All  dis — w'at?"  He  tapped 
Karasac's  arm.  "It  is  distinctly  good — better  than 
any  man  has  yet  evolved." 

But  the  other  merely  glowered,  uncomprehending. 
Rand  went  to  the  window  facing  the  diamond- 
shaped  air  space ;  he  saw  beyond  another  window,  a 
shadow  pass  before  it.  He  went  to  the  door — it  was 
locked.  He  tried  to  force  it,  and  then,  stepping 
back,  he  lowered  his  bull  neck  and  swung  his  shoul- 
der against  the  panels.  The  latch  crashed  out.  He 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          227 

tore  the  door  open  and  went  beyond,  working  him- 
self free  of  the  stableman's  coat  and  throwing  it 
aside.  Miss  Hergov  hurrying  from  the  rooms  for- 
ward, met  him  as  he  was  entering,  pulling  abruptly 
at  the  bandage  below  his  arm  to  adjust  it. 

"You  locked  me  in,"  he  said;  "I'm  not  used  to 
that." 

"No  one  must  come  upon  you  there,"  she  an- 
swered. "You  must  stay  hidden.  I  had  only  gone  to 
find  things  to  make  you  more  comfortable." 

"We're  well  enough — the  beast  and  I.  I'm  going 
to  sit  here  a  while.  I'd  as  soon  be  dead  as  unable  to 
clatter  my  tongue,  to  exploit  myself,  celebrate  the 
ego,  to  quarrel  with  the  universe  if  I  can  get  a  word 
back.  And  you — you  interest  me — you  are  filled 
with  conceits — you  go  about  lugging  what  you're 
pleased  to  call  duty,  and  a  squalling,  ungrateful  brat 
it  is — but  beyond  this  stupidity  you  are  a  tissue  of 
dreams." 

She  was  perplexed.  "Is  this  a  time  to  talk?"  she 
asked. 

"Excellent.    The  night  is  not  half  done." 

"Your  cut,"  she  added  seriously.  "I  was  search- 
ing for  some  peroxide  of  hydrogen  and  there  is 
some  medicated  cotton — " 

"Let  it  wait.  It  is  a  mere  shallow  gouge — a  rib 
or  two  scarred  up.  The  beast  and  I  will  dress  each 
other's  hurts.  I'll  teach  him  to." 

"You'll  be  cold — you  have  no  coat."  And  looking 
at  him  again  in  her  serious  intent,  she  went  to  the 


228  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

chamber  beyond  and  came  back  with  a  fluffy  quilt 
of  soft  blue  stuff — the  sort  of  thing  you  would  wrap 
about  a  baby's  skin  .  .  .  strange  enough  to 
cover  the  swart  bull  aspect  of  a  big  man  naked  to 
the  waist.  She  put  it  about  his  shoulders  and  sat 
across  the  round  table  from  him  as  if  guessing  at 
his  grave  smile  which  now  and  then  broke  to  open 
humor. 

"Well,"  he  bantered,  "shall  I  thank  you?" 

"For  what?" 

"True.  You've  done  nothing  for  me — because  the 
blood  was  dripping  from  me.  But  for  this  fanfaro- 
nade of  yours  and  the  professor's — the  brotherhood 
and  the  like — for  this  you'd  martyr  yourself.  I  have 
spent  many  a  moment  summing  you  up.  You  are 
harder  to  solve  than  most  women  who  are  ludi- 
crously far  from  being  the  mysteries  they  imagine 
themselves,  or  as  indispensable  as  they  flatter  them- 
selves." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  pretense  of  ignoring. 

"Come,  now,"  he  went  on  good-humoredly,  from 
under  his  baby  quilt  of  blue,  "let  us  hear  each  other 
out.  Let  us  look  clearly  behind  each  other's  mask — 
or  yours,  for  I  wear  none.  To  begin  with — and  then 
we  can  dismiss  the  matter  for  all  time — you  have  the 
most  astonishing  eyes  I  have  ever  seen— beautiful, 
exquisite,  unafraid.  They  look  wide  out  on  one,  re- 
vealing, accusing,  solacing.  If  there  was  a  soul  be- 
hind the  skies  in  June  when  it  stares  down  unclouded, 
I'd  swear  it  would  remind  me  of  you." 


!  What  sort  of  man  are  you  ?  " 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          229 

She  had  no  word.  He  shifted  his  long  legs  under 
the  table,  and  fell  to  scratching  in  a  dirty  paper  for 
tobacco.  "Your  nose/1  he  went  on  leisurely,  "turns 
slightly.  It  is  also  too  small.  Your  hair  is  a  trifle 
coarse  and  heavy  with  a  barbaric  purple  hardly 
pleasing.  Your  ears  are  fine,  but  over-large;  your 
face,  on  the  whole,  not  good-looking,  and  yet — "  He 
eyed  her  with  an  indifferent  intent.  "Well,  your  fig- 
ure is  good.  Your  foot — which  I  saw  once  on  the 
stair — had  an  ankle  beautifully  molded." 

She  drew  it  in.  You  could  hear  the  fillip  of  her 
skirts. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "that  is  all.  One  may  as 
well  at  the  beginning  let  a  woman  know  what  he 
thinks  of  her  looks,  otherwise  he'd  never  be  done 
with  her  curiosity  as  to  what  he  thinks.  .  .  . 
Now  we  can  go  on  and  debate  the  eternal  questions, 
and  not  ears  or  eyes  or  feet." 

She  glanced  up  with  a  pretense.  "You,"  she  said 
indifferently,  "are  preposterous!" 

"Come,  now,"  he  reproved,  "get  away  from  the 
common  ideas  of  your  tribe.  Why  should  I  look 
you  over,  save  as  a  man  will  judge  a  portrait  or  a 
bit  of  stone?  The  devil  take  you — if  you're  to  be 
as  common  as  that,  I'll  go  back  to  the  beast  and  start 
him  yelping  about  how  he  hates  me — the  rich  man's 
son." 

"Go  on,  then,"  she  murmured,  "I'll  listen — I  can 
listen!" 

"I  fear  not.    You'll  interrupt  eternally.  But  here's 


230          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

the  case:  Here  you  are,  Louise  Hergov,  a  Russian 
Jewess,  apostate,  exiled,  obscure,  coming  up  from 
the  shops,  living  alone  in  a  dingy  Chicago  flat,  get- 
ting your  breakfast  over  a  gas  stove  and  going  each 
day  to  sit  at  a  man's  side,  working,  helping  his  soul 
to  grow — for  another.  Year  long  seeing  the  light  in 
his  eyes,  his  breath  on  you  at  times,  knowing  that  he 
feels  your  worth  and  knowing  you're  all  the  other 
woman  is  not — you,  with  your  marvel  of  a  soul,  your 
mother  feeling — here  you've  sat  by  the  good  you 
could  not  claim,  not  daring  to  lift  your  eyes  lest  he 
see  what's  burning  in  them.  And  here,  now  I  come — 
I  crush  this  hero-worship  of  yours  with  what? 
Merely  a  rant  of  words,  a  whim  of  mine  to  do  some- 
thing he  does  not  dare.  Yet  you  go  working  calmly 
on — you'll  go  hungry,  loveless,  all  your  life  long. 
Eh  ?  I  wonder  that  you  women  do  not  take  bombs 
and  blow  up  something  or  other !" 

Her  eyes  did  not  leave  him;  she  had  not  lost  a 
modulation  of  the  voice.  He  went  on  softly :  "Tell 
me — have  I  read  you?" 

"Why  should  I  lie?"  she  answered.  "You  know 
me  better  than  I  can  tell." 

"Well,"  he  went  on  airily,  "if  one  does  not  have 
love,  one  should  have  the  wit  to  do  without  it." 

"There's  a  greater  thing,"  she  said.  "O,  yes — be- 
yond— there's  work — there's  giving !"  She  turned  to 
him  intently :  "I  asked  you  to  save  Doctor  Ennisley. 
You  gave  greatly.  I,  too,  could  do  that.  Oh,  if  the 
chance  was  given  a  woman !  To  have  the  feeling  that 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          231 

in  your  power  his  whole  career  lay,  and  the  great 
cause  beyond  it,  and  that  you  gave  simply,  unknown, 
unrequited — and  turned  away!  O,  Rand — that  was 
yours !  And  I  had  nothing  to  give — nothing !  I  begin 
to  understand  you.  You're  for  ever  seeking  the 
finest — the  rapture  of  a  sentiment  that's  beyond 
other  men." 

"Comrade,"  he  smiled,  "I've  lived  most  else  and 
found  it  not  worth  while.  Come  on — let's  live  be- 
yond them  and  their  claptrap." 

"Ah,  don't!"  she  whispered,  and  now  could  not 
look  at  him.  She  laid  her  head  upon  the  table  in  her 
arm,  the  wondrous,  heavy  hair  by  his  hand.  And 
then  she  lifted  it  and  smiled  wanly.  "You  are  a  sort 
of  conscience  to  me — a  devil  pricking  me  to  go  hurt 
myself — to  shatter  my  vanities.  It's  very  late — 
hadn't  you  better  go?"  She  smiled  again  as  she 
rose.  "Why  me?  There  are  others  who  deserve 
your  tortures  better." 

"They  are  not  worth  the  scourge.   You — " 

"Well?" 

"Your  eyes  are  marvelous  with  those  tears  in 
them." 

She  rubbed  them  out.  "I  thought,"  she  answered, 
"that  you  saw  no  need  of  referring  to  them  again." 

"Your  nose  is  infamously  red,"  he  continued  stud- 
iedly. 

Unsmiling,  she  sought  her  handkerchief.  "And 
your  hair  is  coming  down.  I  told  you  once" — he 
spoke  with  his  schoolmaster's  air  now — "to  wear 


232  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

always  a  flower  in  it.  Here — on  this  side  .  .  . 
a  trifle  higher  up." 

"It's  ghastly  to  think  of  you,"  she  muttered, 
"hidden — driven  from  your  father's  house — your 
inheritance  lost — your  position — name — ^everything. 
.  .  .  And  here,  wounded — without  a  shirt  to 
your  back — without  a  friend  except  the  beast  who 
stabbed  you — whom  you're  saving!" 

"I  congratulate  you.  There  are  few  who'd  have 
the  sense  to  see  the  extraordinary  quality  of  it.  The 
entire  episode  is,  indeed,  a  jewel.  I  hold  it  up — I 
juggle  it — it  flashes  from  many  facets.  I  shall  wear 
it  with  the  air  of  a  man  who's  won  the  Victoria 
Cross.  I  shall  take  it  sometime  before  my  God  and 
whistle  up  to  Him:  "Look  here  what  I've  got!" 

She  seemed  not  to  hear.  Presently,  from  her 
reverie,  she  went  on  slowly.  "I  wonder  if  a  thought 
ever  comes  to  you  of  what  you  might  have  been? 
The  master  of  the  mills — the  priceless  chance  for 
good — to  give  to  thousands  for  all  time  a  chance  at 
life — a  better  life — hope — love?  O,  to  be  rich,  to 
have  the  master's  feeling — the  power  to  make  life 
mean  so  much !  Power — power — that's  it — power !" 

She  looked  at  him,  his  smile,  his  ironic  pity.  It 
seemed  within  her  soul  a  dream  was  fading.  She 
could  not  tell  from  whence  this  great  grief  came — 
what  dark  upon  the  light  that  had  led  her  on  in  cour- 
age to  the  work  of  all  the  days. 

He  was  about  to  go,  uprising  to  drag  the  blue 
little  quilt  from  his  brown  shoulders.  "Who'll  get 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          233 

breakfast?"  he  said  abruptly.  "He'll  be  hungry, 
the  little  beast-brother  will  be  hungry,  and  so  shall 
I.  See  here,  we  don't  know  what  the  day  will  bring, 
eh — do  we  ?  Well,  I'd  like  lamb  chops  and  rolls  and 
chocolate — a  sudden  fancy  has  seized  me.  Get  them 
for  breakfast.  ...  I  will  assume  that  the 
beast-brother  likes  lamb  chops — get  them  for  us 
some  way  or  other." 

She  followed  him,  murmuring.  "Yes,  yes."  And 
then  she  stopped  him  with  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "You 
can't  rest  this  way.  Your  wound's  still  bleeding 
some — see  here!  It  needs  attention' — an  antiseptic." 

He  sat  down.  For  half  an  hour  she  washed  and 
pressed  and  bound  the  wound,  seeming  to  linger,  at 
times,  with  little  questionings,  over  the  task. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

SHE  came  to  her  work  the  next  morning,  out- 
wardly the  same,  the  secretary  of  a  busy  man 
at  the  left  of  his  desk  in  the  study  acrpss  the  hall 
from  the  living-room. 

The  place  seemed  deserted.  There  was  about  it 
in  this  month  of  young  odors  of  the  earth,  and 
its  springing  life,  the  terrible  beauty  of  a  day 
after  the  death  of  one  beloved.  You  move,  then,  as 
one  apart  through  familiar  environs  whose  forms 
appear  now  oddly  acute;  you  wonder  at  your  sen- 
sibility to  the  insistent  all-enveloping  quality  of  the 
yellow  sunshine — it  sleeps  on  a  well-known  wall,  a 
tree,  a  path,  with  a  beautified  actuality;  peace 
breathes  from  all,  as  though  the  world  had  enlarged 
for  some  ineffable,  sweet  intrusion;  sea,  sky  and 
land  indeed,  speak  the  new  ordination.  It  is  as 
though  the  universe  had  loosed  a  dimension  noble 
enough  for  grief,  measureless  enough  for  its  solace, 
and  was  waiting  tranquilly  for  you  to  step  again 
with  its  progression  after  this  moment's  flash  of  the 
lesser  reality,  to  go  once  more  in  the  common  and 
mystic  patience  and  fortitude  of  life  to  its  end. 

It  was  from  this  spell  that  Corbett  came  after  a 
234 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          235 

sleepless  night.  The  servants  had  not  stirred  as  he 
went  along  the  checked  walk  by  the  budding  elms,  all 
gray  and  misty  in  the  spring  cool,  the  sparrows  chir- 
ruping; he  walked  from  the  ordered  park  along  a 
sweep  of  rough  and  treeless  ground  reaching  out  to 
the  great  warehouses  and  slips  of  the  city  front,  be- 
fore him  the  east  banked  with  slow-moving  cloud 
washed  with  a  blur  of  rain  above  the  lake ;  but  in  all 
this  fine  sanity  found  nothing,  and  so  came  back 
again  across  the  precise  boulevards  of  the  north  side 
to  Rand's  home. 

The  city  was  awakening  then,  burring  to  the  south 
like  a  mighty  mill  under  its  ever-flexing  smoke  cloud. 
,When  Corbett  came  through  the  lawn  paths  to  the 
side  door  he  found  his  wife  at  the  dining-room  win- 
dow, reaching  to  free  the  first  grimy  sweet  tendrils 
of  naked  jessamine  twisting  in  the  decayed  bricks. 

"I  did  not  hear  you  go  out,"  she  said;  "it  must 
have  been  early." 

"I  could  not  sleep — Demetra — at  all." 

They  looked  at  each  other;  they  were,  indeed, 
worn.  She  muttered,  as  though  her  control  had 
slipped  at  sight  of  him:  "Corbett,  there's  a  horror 
in  this.  O,  we  shall  not  sleep !" 

He  came  to  her  and  said  gravely :  "See  here,  we 
can't  go  on  this  way.  We  can't  let  it  sit  on  us.  Rand, 
the  devil,  he  never  saw  this  boy  before,  but  this  is 
like  him.  If  I  were  to  sum  up  the  spirit  of  America 
— its  money  lust,  its  brutish  humor,  its  ruthlessness 
— I'd  point  to  that  man's  face." 


236          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"He  gave  up  all/'  she  answered. 

"Yes,  the  swaggerer — the  actor — it  delighted  his 
grotesque  soul." 

"No  matter,"  the  wife  went  on;  "I  suppose  we're 
safe  now  if  he  gets  Karasac  away.  They  went  last 
night  to  John  Bride's  with  Louise." 

Corbett  started:  "How  could  she?  It  isn't  safe." 
He  seemed  dazed  again:  "Louise — she's  known  as 
a  socialist — Altmayer,  Markey — all  the  city  leaders 
know  her,  and  she's  my  secretary.  The  girl,  in  her 
quiet  way,  has  encouraged  them — she's  even  written 
a  bit  for  the  Voice.  She  shouldn't  have  anything  to 
do  with  Karasac,  an  anarchist." 

"I  suppose,"  the  wife  continued,  "it  was  to  save 
you." 

He  winced.  She  was  not  looking  at  him,  and  he 
went  on  nervously :  "O,  the  girl !  It's  like  her.  She's 
borne  many  a  hard  lick  for  me  one  way  and  another. 
Rand  ought  to  know  what's  in  her.  He's  always 
jeering  about  the  lack  of  soul  in  women — that  they 
can't  give  greatly  without  love — he  should  know 
that  girl,  what  she's  capable  of!" 

The  wife  stirred ;  she  sank  her  fists  together  and 
said — and  it  was  like  the  snapping  of  a  bar  of  steel : 
"You  did  not  speak — you  did  not  speak!" 

"Demetra,"  he  muttered,  his  eyes  taking  on  their 
hunted  look,  "were  you  waiting  for  that  ?  It  was  of 
you  I  w^as  thinking — you  and  my  little  Tad — and 
the  great  work  beyond.  It  shook  me — unnerved  me. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  vision  of  all  America  was  before 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  237 

me — what  it  shall  be — the  place  where  all  the  peo- 
ples will  work  out  the  problem — the  failed  and  de- 
feated— the  drift  of  all  the  races — the  toilers  and 
the  oppressed.  Russians,  Jews,  Slavs,  Germans, 
Poles — your  own  people,  Demetra — it  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  tide  of  inpouring  life  was  to  be  judged  in 
me — and  if  I  failed — failed — " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  patiently,  "I  know  all  that. 
I've  heard  you  tell  of  it  before." 

He  came  to  take  her  hand.  "Demetra,  listen 
here.  If  I  was  charged  with  inciting  violence — if 
they  fixed  this  thing  on  me  from  my  talks  to  the 
mill-men — if  I  was  dishonored  and  had  to  give 
everything  up — my  place  at  the  university — every- 
thing— dear,  would  you  stand  by  me?" 

She  turned  from  him;  she  cried  in  a  sort  of  pas- 
sion. "O,  if  it  would  happen!" 

"If  it  would  happen,  Demetra!" 

She  strode  from  him  to  the  sunlit  window — she 
burst  back  on  him.  "If  you  would  let  us  be  great, 
we  women!  Only  that — give  what  is  best  in 
us!" 

He  was  astonished.  To  his  attempt  to  speak,  she 
broke  in.  "To  give  what  is  best — you,  your  posi- 
tion in  the  world ;  I — well,  I  married  you  for  peace 
-—rest.  O,  I  can  give  that !" 

He  watched  her  uncomprehending,  and  muttered : 
"To  give  my  work  in  the  world?" 

And  on  his  amazed  study,  she  came  again  with 
her  new,  moving  sharpness :  "Corbett,  have  I  failed 


238          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

in  anything?  I've  hurt  you — I've  disappointed  you 
— as  a  wife!" 

He  drew  her  hand  to  his,  the  old  hunger  for  her 
in  his  eyes,  the  pathos  of  the  idealist,  the  lover,  year 
by  year  learning  that  there  is  no  enchantment. 
"Dear  heart,  what  is  the  mystery  about  you?  It's 
in  all  our  love.  I  look  into  your  eyes  as  one  would 
a  temple — " 

"A  temple?  Corbett!" 

"A  place  in  your  soul  to  which  you  go  alone."  He 
drew  her  closer,  in  his  old  fond  eagerness.  "And 
always,  outside,  I'm  waiting.  .  .  .  Ah,  can't 
you  see — what  I  want  to  see?" 

"What?"  she  muttered. 

"A  great  love  there  for  me." 

She  moved  a  little  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  flitted. 
"And  you  think  I've  not  given  all — a  great  love, 
Corbett?" 

"There's  something — a  mystery,  dear." 

She  drew  from  him  after  his  gentle  pause;  and 
then,  as  one  recovering  from  a  reverie  which  had 
a  sweetness  and  a  pain,  she  laughed  slightly.  "Cor- 
bett, there's  always  a  temple  in  a  woman's  soul,  a 
shrine  to  which  she  goes  alone.  That  is  the  mys- 
tery— why  she  must  always  go  alone  with  her 
dreams,  her  loves  and  look  at  them  in  silence.  Yes, 
to  turn  them  over  and  judge  them,  and  only  the  best 
and  purest  can  she  leave  there.  Perhaps  all  her  life 
long  she's  nothing  to  bring — she  finds  nothing,  and 
the  temple's  empty.  Or  there  comes  a  child,  or  a 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          239 

great  ambition  for  some  one,  the  man  she  loves — 
something  proves  itself  the  highest  and  the  best. 
...  Or  perhaps  there's  but  a  memory,  a  dream, 
and  the  temple's  empty  her  life  long." 

He  asked  after  a  while,  gently  as  before,  his  tired 
eyes  on  her.  "Dear  heart — is  yours?" 

"How  can  a  woman  tell?"  she  murmured;  and 
he  was  hurt.  She  saw  it ;  she  went  on :  "One  must 
be  great  to  find  the  great  way.  And  we  are  not, 
Corbett.  O,  we've  not  proved  anything!" 

"I'll  find  the  way,"  he  whispered.  "It  seems  I  was 
never  so  close  to  you,  Demetra,  as  now.  I'll  find 
the  way." 

"Suppose,"  she  answered,  turning  in  a  new  intent 
on  him,  "there  was  a  way?" 

"I'd  take  it,  dear ;  I  love  you  so.  Our  ways  of  life 
have  been  different,  but  I  love  you  so !" 

"You've  trusted  me,"  she  whispered,  and  put  her 
hands  about  his  neck  as  she  sat  on  the  chair's  arm, 
"all  the  old  doubts — the  things  women  whisper  of 
each  other — you've  trusted  me." 

"Demetra!"  He  had  clasped  her,  checking  his 
feeling  with  his  kiss. 

"Ah,  well,  let's  be  frank.  You've  tried  to  shield 
me,  but  these  women  of  your  college  crowd — well, 
I  suppose  our  lives  have  been  apart." 

"Dear,  you've  been  unhappy?" 

"No,"  she  smiled,  "you've  done  all  a  man  could 
do."  She  suddenly  slipped  into  his  arms,  drawing 
back  his  head  to  look  deep  into  his  wondering  hurt 


240  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

eyes.  "Corbett,  you've  a  name — a  future.  Could 
you  give  it  up  for  me?" 

"For  you,  Demetra?" 

"For  me.  To  go  away — alone — beaten — a  fail- 
ure." 

He  held  her  off,  astounded :  "Failed  ?— f or  you  ?" 

"Yes,  would  that  be  happiness?" 

"Happiness?  To  fail?  To  give  up  everything?" 
His  dreamer's  eyes  marveled.  He  could  not  under- 
stand her  stealth,  her  leaning,  her  caress. 

"To  step  beyond  happiness,  then,  if  that  was  the 
price  of  the  brotherhood." 

He  sat  back  more  amazed.  "Demetra,  the  brother- 
hood? I  can't  understand — a  woman  doesn't  care 
for  that — the  bigger  things." 

She,  too,  drew  away.  She  rose  and  turned.  "You, 
also,  tell  us  that!  O,  do  you  think  that  at  love  a 
woman  stops  and  dwells  ?" 

He  could  not  answer  for  his  staring  at  her.  She 
seemed  taller,  hardening,  rising  before  him,  her 
eyes  wide,  dark  in  a  sort  of  horror.  He  stepped 
toward  her,  muttering  inarticulately  her  name,  and 
she  drew  off. 

"I  think  I  know,  now,"  she  retorted,  and  he  saw 
in  her  eyes  some  cruel  thing — it  was  as  if  she  had 
thrust  him  from  her. 

And  as  they  stood,  she  by  the  window  with  its 
woods'  smell  of  spring,  the  ineffable  sweetness  of 
morning's  inconsequentially,  the  dew  dripping  from 
the  eaves,  the  sparrows  twittering,  the  level  sun 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  241 

across  the  velvet  grass,  Louise  came  along  the  hall 
unannounced,  in  the  freedom  she  had  in  this  house. 
They  saw  her  go  to  the  study  and  remove  her  veil, 
and,  as  usual,  pick  up  the  mail  and  arrange  a  paper 
or  two.  Her  face  was  composed,  pale,  but  that  was 
her  way.  The  wife  looked  greedily  upon  her  about 
her  first  little  affairs  of  the  desk.  Then,  while  Cor- 
bett  still  stood  in  his  bitterness,  she  hurried  to  the 
room.  The  secretary  turned  at  the  noise  to  find  her 
touching  the  desk. 

"Louise,"  the  wife  said  sharply.  "Rand — is  he 
still  there?" 

"Yes."  The  girl's  eyes  steadily  looked  bade. 
"Still  there." 

"His  wound  ?  How  is  that  ?  How  did  he  sleep — 
tell  me!" 

The  husband  had  followed.  He  listened,  and 
after  a  look  at  him,  briefly  and  without  greeting, 
and  seeming  to  have  in  it  a  dismissal  such  as  Deme- 
tra's  words  had  borne,  Louise  went  on  shortly :  "He's 
sore  and  tired — but  well.  They — I  got  them  break- 
fast." 

"Rand,"  the  wife  pursued,  "didn't  he  say? — send 
nothing — no  message?" 

"Message?"  The  girl's  blue  eyes  widened: 
"What  would  he — and  to  you?" 

The  wife  turned,  speaking  through  her  teeth  as  a 
woman  will  do  holding  thread  in  them.  "No — of 
course  not — nothing!" 

Then  she  went  out,  leaving  them  constrained. 


242  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"You  took  them  in,  Louise,"  the  doctor  said  nerv- 
ously. "It  was  fine!  If  they'd  been  on  the  street 
they'd  have  been  arrested.  You  saved  them." 

"It  was  not  for  that,"  she  answered — "you — your 
work.  The  week  after  next  you  are  to  dine  at  the 
White  House,  I  remember." 

"Yes,  the  world's  work— that's  the  first  thing," 
he  answered. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  briefly ;  "the  first  thing."  But 
she  became  confused  then,  in  some  trivial  explana- 
tion of  the  mail,  and  he  stood  stupidly  trying  to  as- 
sist. It  was  as  if  each  was  trying  to  hide  from  the 
other  what  each  knew  the  other  knew — as  if,  to- 
gether, they  struggled  piteously  to  keep  a  faith  from 
breaking,  a  hope  and  splendor  from  being  crushed 
— as  if  in  their  souls  they  writhed,  unable  to  save  the 
thing — his  manhood,  her  loyalty,  the  flame  of  their 
bright  ardor. 

"Good  God!"  he  found  himself  groaning,  for  it 
was  wrung  from  him — "this  thing — when  will  it 
end?" 

She  had  motioned.  Through  the  open  window 
they  saw  Stephen  coming  slowly  about  the  corner 
of  the  house  on  the  ancient  walk.  The  old  man 
was  bent,  leaning  on  his  stick;  his  face  was  pitted, 
livid,  eaten  with  aging,  his  eyes  blue,  sunken.  He 
seemed  a  dwarf  shrunken  from  the  frail  dignity  of 
yesterday,  the  justice.  Before  the  window  he  saw 
them  and  smiled  up  wanly — a  curious  thing,  indeed, 
for  him. 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          243 

"The  air,"  he  said,  "is  cool.  And  I  slept  little, 
Doctor/' 

"We  did  not  sleep,"  Corbett  answered.  "I  think 
no  one." 

The  father  smiled  again  his  patience.  "An  old 
machine  fast  playing  out,"  he  murmured,  and  went 
slowly  on,  "fast  playing  out." 

The  man  within  extended  his  hand,  but  the  old 
judge  did  not  see  it  on  his  groping  way.  The  wife 
at  the  other  window  of  the  dining-room  was  look- 
ing out — they  could  see  her  face  set  upon  the  am- 
bling figure  along  the  dew-wet  grass.  They  stared 
across  at  her  and  she  at  them.  Then  she  disappeared, 
and  a  moment  later  they  heard  her  step  flying  across 
the  hall  and  she  was  with  them  in  the  study,  by  them 
at  the  window,  pointing  out. 

"You  heard?"  she  said;  "he  did  not  sleep  last 
night — he  drove  away  his  son !" 

"Yes — yes,"  the  man  retorted;  "good  God,  be 
still!" 

He  looked  from  her  to  Louise,  then  his  haunted 
eyes  shot  from  both  of  them.  He  had  been  one  to 
seek  eager  as  a  child  for  praise  of  women,  their 
faiths  behind  him,  their  hands  awaiting  to  bind  his 
hurts,  their  courage  to  send  him  on  again.  And  now 
these  two  stood  mute,  evading. 

"The  thing  is  on  us  all,"  the  wife  muttered; 
"we've  killed  something!" 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

AFTER  that  the  thing  lay  between  them  like  a 
sword  in  their  bed.  At  night,  after  dinner  in 
the  little  room,  with  his  fond,  foolish  mother  queru- 
lously asking  of  his  abstraction,  Corbett  did  not  look 
at  the  wife  nor  speak  more  than  the  essentials  for 
the  mask.  He  went  away  at  eight,  nor  did  they 
know  the  hours  he  strode  the  shore  along  the  trou- 
bled lake  with  its  fitful  winds  of  spring  and  found 
no  surcease  from  his  thoughts — nothing. 

Louise  came  for  the  usual  hour  with  his  corre- 
spondence after  dinner  and  waited,  clearing  up  the 
remnants  of  the  day's  work. 

But  as  the  doctor  did  not  return,  the  wife  came  to 
the  study  and  said  that  she  need  not  wait. 

"But  Professor  Ennisley  made  the  appointment 
to-night.  His  club  address  is  to  be  worked  over," 
the  secretary  answered  resolutely,  and  Demetra 
looked  sharply  at  her. 

"What  is  the  haste?"  she  retorted,  and  then  mut- 
tered :  "Louise,  you  are  so  calm.  Can  you  imagine 
things  ever  being  like  they  were  before?" 

"What  else  can  there  be?  To  work— that's  all." 

"Ah,  well — how  easily  we  take  it !  That  boy,  and 
Rand.  Tell  me,  how  did  you  leave  them?" 

244 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          245 

The  girl  looked  coolly  at  her.  "Why  should  you 
ask?  They  eat  and  sleep  a  deal,  and  quarrel.  The 
mill-man  curses  him,  and  he  is  patient." 

"Rand— patient?" 

"Yes.  And  kind — like  a  big  brother  to  a  child, 
good-humored  and  patient." 

"But,  Louise,"  pursued  the  wife  swiftly,  "you 
hate  him,  don't  you  ?" 

Louise  evaded:  "No,  I  can't  say  that.  No — I 
think  he  plays  with  us  all." 

"That's  it,"  the  other  retorted.  "He  plays  with 
you.  He  couldn't  care  for  you — it's  not  possible !" 

The  girl  started  at  the  wife's  greedy  eyes.  "For 
me?  How  silly!" 

"Ah,  well.  I've  seen  you  look  at  him  so  curiously ! 
A  man  who'd  do  as  he's  done  when  he  held  us  all  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  a  girl 
would  idealize.  We're  not  so  far  from  the  barbarian 
that  we  can't  see  that — his  great  savage  way !  And 
you — you're  given  to  dreaming."  Then  she  cried  in 
a  sort  of  fury:  "Louise,  you're  so  changed!  You 
used  to  stand  before  my  husband  with  something 
wonderful  in  your  eyes.  And  now  Rand's  come. 
You  took  him  in — endured  him,  fed  him,  washed  his 
wounds — " 

The  girl  rose,  her  face  pale.  "I'm  going  now. 
You're  not  yourself." 

"Be  still,  he's  coming,"  the  wife  whispered;  "yes, 
you  loved  him,  and  Rand  pricked  the  bubble!  Be 
still!" 


246  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

For  Corbett  came  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  ve- 
randa and  the  night.  He  saw  them,  and  smiled  wan- 
ly:  "Demetra?  How  are  you,  dear?" 

His  voice  was  not  that  in  which  he  used  to  ask, 
cheerily,  rushing  buoyantly  from  his  work  to  the 
home's  solacing — now  he  asked  wearily,  as  one  does 
a  duty. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  and  he  went  on  in  the  same 
mechanical  mutter:  "I'd  forgotten.  I've  tried  to 
work  to-day — plunge  in  big — "  then  he  seemed  to 
realize  for  the  first  time  that  Louise  was  by  the 
door—  "Why,  you— it's  late,  girl!" 

"I  was  going,"  she  answered.  "I've  waited  two 
hours  for  you." 

He  stared  at  her  evasiveness.  It  seemed  that  the 
tone  of  every  voice  he  knew  was  changed — they 
were  lifeless,  acrid,  brief,  where  once  they  had  been 
like  the  flowing  of  fresh  waters  to  bear  him  on. 

"There's  a  little  work,"  he  added  stonily;  and 
she  responded  with  a  hollow  pretense :  "Yes — some 
letters.  .  ,  .  And  your  address  before  the  Equal- 
ity Club — The  Brother  Keeper,  I  think  you  were  to 
call  it.  We'd  better  work.  You  deliver  it  to-mor- 
row night." 

He  looked  strangely  at  her  as  she  went  back  to 
the  study,  taking  off  again  her  hat  and  coat.  Yes, 
that  was  the  name  he  had  given  it.  It  was  one  of 
his  brilliant  and  audacious  effusions  with  its  trace  of 
phantasy,  of  imagining,  of  easy  sophistry,  even  in 
the  title. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          247 

"The  Brother  Keeper,'  repeated  the  wife,  and 
he  found  himself  between  the  two,  both  looking  at 
him.  He  began  an  awkward  jest  at  the  stubborn 
type-writer  ribbon,  offering  to  help  Louise  with  it. 
But  she  said  clearly :  "Let  us  work  and  be  through." 

He  found  again  on  him  her  astonishing  blue  eyes, 
full,  quiet,  impenetrable  .  „  .  but  their  splendor 
gone,  their  great  faiths  dead.  He  discovered  that 
his  hand  shook  on  the  manuscript,  as  he  went  on, 
confused : 

"Let's  see — page  thirty-four — that's  where  we 
left  off  .  .  .  we  won't  bother  with  much  to- 
night.'5 

The  wife  left  them.  She  opened  the  door  and 
went  out,  but  the  rain  was  falling  and  blowing 
in  the  width  of  the  veranda,  so  she  went  in  again, 
and  along  the  narrow  hall  to  the  main  portion  of  the 
house.  It  was,  as  ever,  untenanted,  the  master's 
aversion  to  lights  of  stricter  observance  than  before. 
But  when  the  woman  reached  the  front  landing,  she 
saw  a  light  in  the  library.  She  went  on  unthinkingly 
enough,  and  reached  the  threshold,  and  there  stood 
still,  checking  a  cry. 

For  Rand  had  risen.  It  was  as  if  an  apparition 
had  appeared — he,  before  a  huge  chair,  with  a  book 
in  his  hand.  He  wore  a  shirt  and  tie,  procured  some- 
how or  other.  He  looked  at  her  dryly. 

"You— here!"  she  cried—  "dared  come  back?" 

"Doubtless.     I  never  thought  of  that — daring  to 


248  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

come.  Eh  ? — there  was  a  book  here  I  wished  to  get 
at  a  moment — something  that  seemed  to  be  Mon- 
taigne had  been  rapping  in  my  head — " 

"Your  father  forbade  you — "  she  put  in. 

"That  wTould  be  an  excellent  reason  for  coming, 
if  I  needed  one.  In  fact,  a  part  of  the  persistent 
obstinacy  I  have  in  living  when  the  world  would 
long  since  have  consigned  me  to  perdition.  I  am 
not  wanted — therefore,  I  go  planting  my  presence. 
...  I  am  ignored — therefore,  I  go  about  yelling 
in  their  faces.  I  am  not  a  relish  to  the  feast." 

"But  how — "  she  whispered —  "did  you  get 
here?" 

"The  front  way — I  have  my  keys — got  them  a 
week  ago  from  the  rooms.  And  I  knew  no  servants 
are  about  this  portion — they  smell  ghosts  here." 

"Ah,  well !"  She  turned  from  his  inconsequential 
and  sonorous  voice —  "Here — again.  You  will 
wreck  us  all  yet!  I  thought  you'd  stay  away." 

"I  was  bored  a  bit.  Eh? — that  brother  of  yours 
— an  extraordinary  fellow,  but  I  have  sounded  him. 
His  philosophy  is  good,  but  I  can't  get  him  to  enlarge 
on  it.  'All  dis1 — w'at?'  says  he,  but  he  will  not  ex- 
pound it  further.  Your  brother,  the  beast,  has  no 
relief  from  his  profundity.  I  play  the  fool  before 
him — I  exhaust  my  wit — I  coddle  and  cajole  him 
— I  tickle  him  with  the  very  button  of  fancy,  and 
he  merely  retires  to  his  tub  and  curses  me  and  my  di- 
versions. Eh? — I,  the  brother  .  .  .  the  well- 
beloved  of  men." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  249 

"Will  you  stop?"  she  said.  "Have  you  come  to 
torture  me?" 

.     "I  move  you?     You  are  far  too  comfortable  a 
creature  —  fed,  warm,  filled  —  " 

She  was  calm  now  —  hate  or  love  seemed  puny 
weapons  to  bring  against  him.  "I  know  you  so 
well,"  she  said,  "it's  not  worth  while  to  listen." 

"There  you  have  me.  To  find  none  to  listen 
would  be  the  only  misfortune  I  could  name.  If  they 
want  a  hell  for  me  let  that  be  it." 

"You're  not  safe  here,"  she  muttered,  and  she 
looked  about  and  went  to  draw  the  curtains:  "It's 
late  —  very  late."  x 

"The  better.  Let  us  sit  down  and  discuss  you  — 
or  rather  myself.  I'm  a  deal  more  interesting.  I 
have  never  yet  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  problem. 
But  you  women  —  eh?  —  you  are  like  a  wheel  of  for- 
tune —  a  bewildering  array  of  colors  and  devices  and 
numbers  spinning  brilliantly  .  .  .  but  put  your 
hand  on  it,  stop  it,  read  it  coldly,  there  is  nothing 
to  amaze  one." 

She  stood  erect,  silent,  regarding  his  round  heavy 
face,  the  gray  unlit  eyes  always  on  her,  the  swiftly 
moving  mobile  lips  —  she  sank  back  to  a  chair  with 
something  like  a  sigh. 

"Your  wound,"  she  said  at  last  —  "and  that  boy 
out  in  the  dark  —  you've  haunted  us  —  the  thought  of 


"I  am  doing  well.    We've  eaten  well  —  and  sleep. 
,  It  is  a  famous  place  to  sleep  —  the  cubby  she  put  us 


250          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

in — she?  By  the  way — her  name? — it's  slipped 
from  me." 

"Miss  Hergov,"  she  answered  indifferently. 

"There  is  about  her  a  great  possibility.  I  have 
begun  to  believe  again — " 

"What?"  she  put  in  sharply. 

"A  marvel.  She  loved  your  husband — a  weak- 
ness, but  what  of  it?  The  marvel  is  not  that,  for 
you  women  are  for  ever  yearning  after  what  you've 
not — and  he's  big  in  her  world — she,  sitting  always 
at  his  feet — but  the  wonder  was  to  see  her  face  the 
thing — to  admit  it,  reason  it  calmly  out,  pat  it  on  the 
back  and  put  it  in  its  place.  Once  I  laid  a  day  and 
night  in  a  Brazilian  forest,  fighting  the  heat  and 
fever,  tortured  with  insects,  sunk  in  muck  to  my 
neck  to  await  the  unfolding  of  a  rare  and  exquisite 
lily  the  natives  told  me  of.  And  alone — slowly,  in 
the  moonlight  of  the  second  night — it  came.  I  think 
I  could  so  await  the  soul  of  Louise." 

The  wife's  face  set  stonily.  "There's  something 
monstrous  about  you.  You'd  better  go.  But  one 
thing  I'd  like  to  ask — my  brother — what  of  him?" 

He  lifted  his  hand  airily:  "The  beast  is  mine  to 
make  or  break — another  piece  of  clay  to  potter  with 
— to  see  what  can  be  made  out  of  such  dull  stuff." 

"He's  my  brother." 

"He's  my  beast." 

She  leaped  to  her  feet.  "Do  you  play  with  us 
all?  My  husband — he's  crushed  by  this  thing — 
he's  living  in  an  agony;  your  father — it  has  killed 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  251 

him  as  it  were  in  the  night.  And  I — my  life — my 
soul—" 

He  leaned  forth  as  does  a  physician  to  whom  a 
patient  has  revealed  a  telling  symptom;  he  rubbed 
his  fingers  slightly.  His  rich  voice  had  the  fullness 
of  encompassing  and  all-wise  pity:  "A  soul?"  he 
murmured:  "That  would  be  well  worth  waiting 
for!" 

She  had  not  heard,  it  seemed,  in  her  bitterness. 
"And  you  came  back,"  she  cried,  "to  play  the  actor, 
to  outrage  and  defy!  You're  filled  with  the  mag- 
nificence of  all  this — that  you,  of  all  men,  could  give 
up  your  place,  money,  honor — love — could  take  a 
stranger — a  pitiful  hunted  boy  by  the  hand  and 
save  him — call  him  'brother!'  Yes — "  she  stepped  to 
him,  and  he  saw  the  set  and  light  of  her  eyes —  "I 
see  at  last — all  a  conceit — a  magnificent  vanity — • 
that  is  your  whole  life — to  have  men  hate  you — to 
make  women  fear — an  incredible  vanity!" 

He  looked  at  her  apparently  in  some  concern. 
"My  dear,"  he  said  mildly,  "you  are  splendid — • 
repeat  it." 

But  she  was  beyond  reason — she  cried  on  his 
words:  "That's  nothing!  Only  for  love  are  men 
great  .  .  .  you've  given  nothing  after  all — done 
nothing!  Are  capable  of  nothing!  I'll  show  you 
what  a  man  can  do — what  love  can  tell  him  to  do !" 

"Love?"  he  said  with  some  dry  surprise:  "Then 
what?" 

"You've  said  no  woman  is  great  enough  for  you 


252  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

— to  go  beyond  her  happiness — to  be  all — give  all! 
Well,  I  shall  demand  that — give  that  sacrifice/1 

"You're  like  an  admirable  barbarian.  Sacrifice  ?" 
He  rose  to  look  at  her —  "A  woman?  You — 
give  what,  eh?" 

"O,  it's  hateful  that  we  kept  silent!  I'll  tell  him 
all!" 

"Your  husband?  Tell  him  Karasac's  your 
brother?" 

She  went  on  slowly,  as  one  gathering  strength  for 
her  resolves:  "He  loves  me — he'll  do  this.  What 
you've  done  for  vanity,  he'll  do  because  he  loves 
me." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  regarding  her  easily. 
"He'll  not  speak— not  he!" 

"Love  shall  speak  for  him.  Here,  in  this  house — 
this  very  night — I'll  tell  him,  and  he  shall  tell  Judge 
Rand.  Yes,  he'll  confess  it  to  all  the  world  if  need 
be,  that  I — Demetra,  his  wife — a  foreign  woman — 
am  sister  to  Karasac,  the  anarchist." 

"For  love  of  you?" 

"For  the  great  love!"  She  hurried  on  as  if  in  a 
new  and  mighty  pride,  "I  know  now — I  know  you 
both.  O,  he's  doubted — he  thinks — he  wishes  to 
possess  me  wholly !  Yes,  this  will  try  him." 

"Let  us  be  frank,"  Rand  went  on.  "It  is  an  inter- 
esting problem;  it  has,  indeed,  diverted  me.  He 
sees  in  you  a  dream — a  memory  ? — he  does  not  know 
that  I'm  the  man  .  .  .  you  dared  not  trust  that 
to  him — that  once  you  loved  me?" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  253 

She  looked  at  him  with  fresh  aroused  disdain: 
"A  child — a  child  once  loved  you — no  more  than  a 
child.  And,  yes— I'll  tell  him  that,  now — I'll  heap 
upon  him  all  that  a  man  can  endure  for  the  woman 
he  loves.  He  shall  be  great  enough  for  that." 

Rand  smiled:    "He  does  not  dare!" 

"And  if  he  does  not,"  the  wife  retorted,  "here, 
this  very  night,  take  Karasac  for  brother — yes,  for 
love  of  me — hide  him,  protect  him,  acknowledge, 
if  it  comes  to  that,  that  I,  his  wife,  am  sister  to  the 
mill-boy — if  he  does  not  do  this,  I'll  leave  this  house 
for  ever!"  She  looked  coldly  at  him,  her  dark  eyes 
without  a  flitting,  without  fear;  she  gathered  her 
skirts  closer  and  went  out  of  the  room:  "We  shall 
accept,"  she  said  back  at  him  from  the  hall —  "we, 
too,  can  accept!" 

He  heard  her  footfall  hasten,  die  away;  and,  as 
if  held  by  it,  stole  nearer  the  door  to  listen,  his  heavy 
face,  under  the  single  lamp-glow,  lit,  intent,  ab- 
sorbed, the  small  eyes  shifting  here  and  there.  If 
mask  he  wore  it  had,  for  the  moment,  slipped.  He 
leaned  forth  listening,  as  if  his  soul  had  followed 
her.  Then,  presently,  he  took  his  hat  and  left  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  wife  came  back  to  the  living-room  where 
the  little  round  clock  of  crystal  ticked  insist- 
ently, and  where,  now,  the  old  woman  sat  sleepily 
with  her  sewing.  To  Demetra's  brief  surprise  the 
mother  answered:  "I  thought  I'd  wait.  My  boy's 
worriet  so.  The  type-writer  girl  went  away  and 
then  him,  too,  after  a  bit.  Seems  like  he's  possessed 
these  days  with  worryin'  so." 

The  wife  sat  by  the  window,  looking  out,  listen- 
ing to  the  rhythmic  clock  whose  beat  caught  her 
fancy,  seeming  to  regularize  her  purposes,  to  clear 
her  brain,  to  calm  her  passion.  She  could  see  it,  a 
globe  of  glass  containing  the  dial  and  held  up  by  a 
grotesque  hand  of  green  copper  from  the  pedestal — 
a  sphere  shot  with  iridescent  tremors,  like  the  turn 
of  a  trout  in  clear  water,  a  magician's  crystal  held 
to  the  light.  And  it  ticked,  ticked,  an  infinite  pa- 
tient business  on  the  still  night. 

Nearer,  by  the  table,  sat  Corbett's  mother,  sleepy, 
a  wisp  of  her  thin  gray  hair  caught  in  the  chair 
back,  pitiable,  betraying  baldness,  a  cheap  comb 
sticking  askew,  lacking  the  wizardry  of  women's 
care,  revealing  her  whole  life's  need  of  that  nicety, 

254 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          255 

the  intricate  wisdom  of  the  body  on  which  women 
evolve  distinction.  This  inutile  dowdiness  and  fem- 
inine poverty  held  the  wife's  eye.  It  contrasted 
pregnantly  with  her  own  eloquent  completion  of 
self,  her  irradiation  of  personality.  It  struck  her 
as  odd  that  now,  of  all  moments,  she  should  feel  an 
ardent  pity  for  the  other — and  as  always,  when  she 
was  moved  to  act,  her  course  was  direct,  she  rose 
and  came  to  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Mother,  your  comb  is  out — shan't  I  fix  your 
hair?" 

The  old  woman  started.  Before  her  confused 
answer  she  felt  the  slim,  cool  fingers  in  her  hair. 
"Why,  so  'tis,"  she  quavered  in  her  foolish  depreca- 
tion. "I  must  a-slept — I  was  that  beat  out.  But  my 
hair — it  ain't  worth  much  bother." 

But  she  resigned  herself  with  a  fluttering  hap- 
piness. "I'll  take  it  down  and  do  it  for  the  night," 
the  other  went  on,  "and  you  must  go  to  bed — it's 
very  late  for  you." 

"My  boy,"  she  answered—  "I'd  rather  wait." 
That  was  always  her  cry — the  matter  she  came  back 
to.  The  wife  dwelt  on  it,  and  continued :  "It  may 
be  very  late.  But  let  me  fix  your  hair.  Here — see 
this  ?  It  must  have  been  pretty,  wasn't  it  ?  Mother, 
it's  pretty,  now !" 

The  old  woman  cackled  diffidently,  sitting  back 
in  this  new  pleasure  at  the  touch  of  the  swift,  deft 
hands.  Once  within  the  other  room  the  child 
coughed,  and  they  paused  and  commented,  and  then 


256          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

went  on,  listening  to  the  nurse's  stir,  a  glimpse  of 
her  in  a  blue  and  white  checked  gown  about  the 
green-shaded  lamp,  a  mosaic  inlaid  in  the  open  door. 

"I  expect  I  can't  wait  up,"  the  mother  went  on — 
"he's  such  a  busy  man.  Did  you  ever  think  he'd 
be  so  big  when  you  married  him  three  years  ago?" 

"Yes,"  the  wife  answered  clearly,  "one  couldn't 
fail  to  see  it — he  had  that  about  him — a  wonderful 
capacity  for  work  and  a  dashing  way  of  making  him- 
self believed — of  seeming  to  be  true." 

"Seemin'  ?"  queried  the  mother,  oddly  struck. 

"You  see,  I  mean  personality — the  impression 
he'd  give  out  to  a  stranger.  That  is  the  secret  of 
his  power,  mother." 

"Mebbe,"  the  old  lady  did  not  understand  analy- 
sis: "But  seemin'  true?  He  wa'nt  ever  anythin' 
else." 

The  wife  drew  her  breath  sharply:  "Yes,  but 
some  men  with  the  truth  in  them  have  to  fight  vainly 
all  their  lives  for  the  hearing  that  Corbett  wins 
simply  by  his  charm — his  personality,  his  open- 
ness—" ' 

"It's  just  him,"  the  mother  affirmed.  "He  allus 
was  so.  Just  open,  fine  and  brave — I  brung  him  so." 

"Mother,"  the  wife  went  on,  "if  he  was  hurt  in 
men's  eyes — discredited — caught  in  anything — it 
would  break  your  heart?" 

"No,"  she  answered  proudly,  "not  if  he  come  told 
me.  I'd  never  believe  unless  he  come  told  me  and 
then  I'd  send  him  on  again  cleared  of  it  all — for- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          257 

given."  She  looked  about  solemnly  over  her  glasses : 
"He'd  come  put  his  head  down  here,  and  then  no 
disgrace'd  count.  If  he  was  despised  of  all  men  it 
wa'nt  matter — so's  I  knew.  I'd  send  him  out  again 
— we'd  be  like  we  was  before  he  rose — we  was  all 
so  happy  and  so  pore." 

The  wife's  face  changed — the  other  could  not  see. 
"There — there,"  she  whispered,  and  gave  the  old 
head  a  little  pat,  and  then  her  voice  broke  curiously, 
odd,  surcharged —  "O,  little  mother,  believe  that 
of  me,  also — always!"  The  grizzled  woman  felt 
the  other's  arms,  a  quick  warm  clasp ;  she  could  not 
see  or  understand — she  murmured  fondly,  foolish, 
in  bewildered  happiness :  "Demetry — dear  heart — " 

For  never  had  they  been  so — never  had  they 
clasped  each  other.  And  then  the  wife  went 
swiftly  from  the  room.  The  old  woman  looked 
about  and  got  up,  feeling  of  her  braids.  She  stared 
at  the  dim  chamber  door,  at  the  clock,  an  iridescent 
globe  against  the  curtains.  She  waddled  to  the  hall 
and  called:  "Daughter!  Daughter!"  Then  she  came 
back  confused,  fluttering,  a  great  vague  hope  of 
what  she  knew  not,  trembling  in  her  brain.  She 
went  on  to  her  room  uncertainly  muttering,  lifting 
the  strand  of  her  frayed  gray  hair  to  touch  it,  to 
find  the  perfume  of  the  other  woman's  fingers. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  Ennisley  returned, 
and  a  misshapen  moon  had  arisen  to  glimmer 
through  the  eastward  windows  of  the  living-room 


258  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

where  a  fire  had  burned  low,  for  the  April  night 
was  cool.  A  light  beyond  in  the  chamber  showed  a 
figure  by  the  child's  bed.  Thinking  it  the  nurse,  he 
came  to  the  door  and'said  softly :  "Ellen?  The  boy 
— asleep  ?" 

The  woman  rose.  He  stifled  a  joyful  whisper- 
ing at  her  upraised  hand:  "Demetra!  It's  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  came  out  to  the  living-room. 

"My  boy,"  he  added  seriously,  "you  with  him, 
Demetra?  He's  not  sick? — Ellen,  where's  she?" 

"I  sent  the  nurse  to  bed  .  .  .  she  was  tired 
out."  She  watched  him  listening  at  the  child's  door. 

"My  little  Tad,"  he  murmured  in  the  self-reproof 
of  the  hurried  father,  "and  you — caring  for  him!" 

He  had  not  known  of  this  before — it  seemed, 
some  way,  a  marvel.  He  could  not  know  that  she 
had  been  groping  piteously  for  him  the  night  long, 
reaching  out  to  build  again,  to  uprear  faith  in  him, 
to  find  there  whatever  fragments  of  treasure  were 
left  her.  They  stood  now  across  the  room  from  each 
other,  and  she  turned  up  the  dim  light. 

"Demetra!"  he  followed  her  a  step.  "You're 
up,  dressed — and  it's  very  late." 

She  had  wont  to  be  indifferent  to  his  comings  and 
goings,  his  vigils,  ardors,  and  his  outer  life.  He 
had  often  found  her  idling  in  a  dressing-gown  when 
he  had  come  back  late,  but  it  was  her  choosing 
and  not  to  ask  of  his  battles  and  his  wearinesses. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  again,  "I  waited.  I  wanted 
to  think." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          259 

"Demetra,  you're  strange.    What  is  it?" 

She  went  to  draw  the  curtains ;  then  faced  him. 

"Never  mind — I'll  tell  you  in  time.  Sit  down.  I 
remember  now,  that  this  wa£  the  night  of  the 
Equality  Club  dinner — the  Auditorium,  wasn't  it? 
How  did  it  go?" 

"Fine.  I  spoke  almost  thirty  minutes,  I'm  afraid, 
but  I  could  have  gone  on  for  ever.  There  were  some 
men  there  I  wanted  to  reach — Covington  of  the 
Manufacturers'  Association,  and  Senator  Brown  and 
McCall,  president  of  the  United  Glass  Workers — a 
curious  lot — every  element  of  our  industrial  life 
brought  together.  It  seemed  like  all  America  was 
facing  me — and  it  didn't  matter  that  most  of  them 
were  hostile.  I  made  'em  listen !  Roderman  said  I 
never  spoke  better." 

"I  know,"  she  answered,  used  of  old  to  all  this 
frank,  fine  boy's  ardor —  "I  thought  it  would  be 
good — I  read  it." 

"You?    Read  it!" 

"To-night — the  copy  that  lay  on  your  desk.  The 
Brother  Keeper — it  was  fine." 

He  was  surprised.  She  had  never  cared  for  his 
work.  He  went  on  a  trifle  confused :  "A  little  far- 
fetched— that  name  on  it." 

"It  was  good."  She  sat  down  and  looked  across 
at  him:  "Corbett,  here's  a  chair." 

He  obeyed  her  gesture,  pulling  at  his  brown  beard, 
perplexed.  To  cover  it,  he  continued:  "Dear,  it 
seemed  when  I  was  speaking,  with  the  applause  I 


260          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

made  them  give  me— -that  I'd  forgotten.  That  we 
were  back  a  week  ago,  before  this — this  thing  hap- 
pened .  .  .  Rand  and  the  boy." 

"Tell  me/'  she  answered,  "how  does  it  stand? 
Do  you  hope  to  escape  it  now?" 

"I  think  so.  The  rioting  at  the  mills  is  over.  The 
police  have  the  conspirators,  except  this  Karasac. 
If  they  don't  get  him,  I  think  we're  safe  ...  if 
Rand  gets  him  away.  And  the  judge — ah,  God — 
that  hurts !  But  he's  not  turned  from  me — even  with 
Hayes  trying  to  poison  his  mind  against  me,  the 
judge  is  patient — giving  me  another  show  to  go  on 
with  the  work." 

Her  calm,  her  ceaseless  watching,  seemed  to  be 
on  him.  It  was  not  her  old  idling  indifference,  her 
cat-like  ease  and  tolerance. 

He  studied  her  an  instant,  then  revolved  his  own 
thought — always  he  went  back  to  it,  even  now  when 
the  night's  triumphant  glow  had  put  it  from  him: 
"Rand — that's  a  strange  thing!  His  taking  this 
friendless  boy.  .  .  .  Somehow,  it's  magnificent !" 

She  leaned  to  him,  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  He  saw 
the  glint  of  their  wedding-ring  pressed  to  the  soft 
mold  of  her  chin.  She  asked  merely:  "Could  you 
be  that?" 

"Be  what?" 

"Magnificent?" 

He  sat  back,  his  dreamer's  eyes  raised  afar,  the 
fine  contour  of  his  pointed  beard  and  face  distinct 
to  her.  He  thought  slowly  and  from  this  he  spoke ; 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          261 

"To  swagger  through  life — to  mock  men,  society — 
its  shams  and  cruelties.  To  be  the  outcast  from  all 
this — the  actor  in  an  impossible  part — the  man 
beyond  the  common  feeling.  N6,  I'm  not  like  that, 
I'm  afraid." 

"To  be  all— to  give  all?" 

He  rose — he  was  big  with  it — the  idealist  could 
see — the  thing  could  lift  him. 

"For  one  thing.    .    .    .    Yes — my  work." 

"Yes — the  social  regeneration — the  dawn  of  the 
new  day,  I  think  I've  heard  you  call  it — your 
brotherhood.  Something  to  do  with  books  and 
lecturing,  it  seems  to  me.  But  for  a  man — a  beaten 
man — a  beast,  hated — feared.  See  here! — for  that 
could  you  go  beyond  your  happiness — your  life 
work?" 

He  turned  to  listen  at  her  intent  voice.  After  a 
moment  he  started  slightly.  "Beyond  happiness? 
That's  Rand's  idea  of  something  or  other.  Demetra, 
what  do  you  mean?" 

She  regarded  him  clearly:  "I'm  asking  a  great 
thing  of  you." 

For  a  time  they  were  still.  His  glance  did  not 
flinch  from  hers. 

"I  know  what  you  mean — I  can  read  it  in  your 
eyes." 

"To  take  this  mill-boy  by  the  hand — shelter  him 
— save  him — and  if  you  must,  proclaim  to  all  the 
land  that  he's  your  pupil — that  it  was  what  you 
taught,  him  which  first  raised  him  to  even  the  little 


262  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

light  he  has.     He  came  to  you — he   called   you 
brother." 

The  husband  stirred  a  little.  "You  know  what 
it  would  be  for  us — absolute  ruin." 

"Rand  took  it." 

"Yes,  always  the  poseur.  I  saw  that  clearly,  he 
loved  to  play  the  part." 

"No  matter,  he  saved  you."  She  struck  her  fists 
together:  "O,  God — if  you  had  spoken!" 

He  crouched  forward  as  if  struck,  indeed;  he 
lifted  the  brown  curls  from  his  damp  brow :  "De- 
metra,  I've  seen  this  in  you  two  days  now.  In  you 
and  in  Louise — your  looks  on  me.  It's  been  an 
agony,  and  now  you  out  with  it — you  ask  me  to 
confess  to  Karasac." 

"To  get  him  away — to  confess;  then,  to  go  out 
despised — failed."  She  stopped  and  then,  mechan- 
ically, she  muttered :  "Rand  did." 

He  whirled  in  a  sort  of  fury:  "Rand — always 
Rand!" 

She  raised  her  head:  "This  I  know — he  hates 
wrong — he  does  not  fear." 

"I'm  fighting,  too,  a  bigger  fight  and  differently. 
What's  all  his  wild  talk — what  can  it  amount  to?" 

She  nodded :  "What,  indeed  ?  Only  this  I  know 
— he  saved  you."  And  she  went  on  slowly :  "Saved 
me,  also;  that's  the  bitterest  of  it." 

"Ah,  I  know,  dear.  I'd  save  you  the  smallest 
grief.  I'd  give  up  anything  to  brighten  a  day  of 
your  life — I  love  you  so!" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  263 

"There's  but  one  way  to  save  me." 

He  looked  at  her  quietness  in  a  strange  awe.  She 
went  on  steadfastly :  "One  way — you  must  be  great 
as  he!" 

"Great  ?    An  actor — an  impossible  figure !" 

"No  matter.  You  shall  do  for  love  what  he  did 
for  vanity,  Corbett!"  She  had  risen,  her  dark  eyes 
shining,  her  faith,  her  fullness  of  confidence  in  her 
power  over  him —  "As  great  as  he!" 

"Demetra !    How  can  the  thing  appear  so  to  you  ?" 

"Do  you  think  I'll  have  him  go  all  his  life  long 
thinking  I  dared  not  speak?  .  .  .  that  you  dared 
not!"  And  she  put  both  hands  upon  his  shoulders 
and  pressed  him  back.  "I'll  tell  you,  Corbett,  and 
you  shall  tell  all  the  world  if  needs  be,  that  Karasac 
is  my  brother." 

"Brother?"    He  simply  sat  in  wonder. 

"I've  told  you  much,"  she  added  slowly,  still  from 
the  calm  that  awed  him.  "You  knew  me  when  you 
married  me — a  girl  come  from  the  people — a  child 
who  could  remember  little  of  the  Polish  village 
where  she  grew.  Well,  you  know  of  my  coming  to 
America.  It  seems  my  family  followed — they  were 
people  of  the  mills  and  mines — I  hardly  know  where, 
but  this  mill-hand  recognized  me  the  night  he  came 
— Ludovic,  brother.  The  others,  I  hardly  knew — 
mere  babies  in  the  old  days  .  .  .  but  they  ended 
it  all  in  Rand's  mills.  And  Ludovic  knew  me.  He 
spoke  that  night,  hardly  a  week  ago.  Good  God,  how 
long  it  seems!" 


264          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Your  brother?  And  I  taught  him  in  the  mill 
school?  It's  strange — "  and  then  he  turned  swiftly 
on  her —  "Rand — he  knew  this  ?  He  did  it  to  save 
you!"  He  sat  as  one  dulled,  the  real  import  held 
from  him. 

The  move  of  her  head  might  have  been  assent — 
hope.  She  muttered :  "He  shall  not  go  all  his  life 
thinking  I  dared  not  speak." 

And  then,  with  her  leaning  to  him,  a  pleading, 
a  passion,  a  threat — her  voice  breaking :  "You'll  do 
this,  Corbett !  You'll  bring  him  back  to  his  place— 
his  father — you'll  take  this  thing  on  you!" 

He  was  still.  And  presently  he  said  quietly:  "I 
think  I  see.  You  want  to  save  him,  Demetra — that's 
it." 

She  drew  proudly  back:  "A  bigger  thing — to 
prove  you.  Come,  we  can  be  calm — we  can  talk  this 
over,  Corbett.  It's  hateful  that  we  dared  not  speak. 
Come,  we  can  do  this !" 

But  her  calm  was  a  menace ;  she  blurted  on  with 
it:  "As  God  lives,  Stephen  Rand  shall  judge  us. 
This  mill-man  you  lifted  to  what  little  light  he  got 
— I,  his  sister.  As  God  lives,  you  shall  tell  him  all, 
and  he's  to  judge!" 

He  looked  off  above  her;  he  took  mechanically 
from  his  pocket  the  manuscript  of  his  last  speech; 
he  looked  at  it  unrolling,  the  blue  type,  the  marginal 
notes.  "And  on  me,"  he  muttered,  "the  blow  will 
come.  I  married  the  anarchist's  sister — I  taught 
him — he  came  to  me!"  It  seemed  the  land  out  in 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  265 

the  dark  was  the  land  of  dreams — a  bubble  that  a 
breath  might  burst.  "You  can't  understand.  .  .  . 
If  the  justice  turned  on  me — sent  me  away — " 

"You  shall  go — if  he  despises  you — you  shall 
accept !" 

"I  can't." 

She  was  on  him  with  a  tiger's  swiftness,  clutch- 
ing him,  her  breath  on  his,  striking  his  knees,  her 
eyes  brilliant,  staring.  "For  me,"  she  cried,  "Cor- 
bett,  because  you  love  me !" 

"Yes,  and  for  that  I'd  keep  this  thing  from  you — 
protect  you — -conceal  it  all  my  life  long — because  I 
love  you." 

"There's  a  greater  way,"  she  was  calm  again. 
"Love  can  make  a  man  great  beyond  himself — that 
only!" 

"Love?    Dear  heart — it's  ruin." 

"Rand  took  it." 

"Look  here,"  he  whispered,  staring  wildly  at  her, 
paling:  "Rand — yes — for  you  ...  he  loves 
you." 

She  laughed  wildly;  and  a  cry  broke  from  him. 
He  whirled  up  from  her  grasp.  "Demetra,  I'm  find- 
ing the  way  now!  Rand — your  old  life  abroad? 
You  told  me  once  that  a  man  took  you,  a  child. 
You  admitted — "  He  seized  her  hands,  stung  with 
the  truth.  "Always  I've  seemed  to  see  a  playing  be- 
tween you !  Rand — he's  the  man — he  knows  every- 
thing!" 

"He  is  the  man,"  she  retorted. 


266          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

He  recoiled,  lifting  a  shaking  finger  to  her  com- 
posure, "A  child — and  he  took  you — sent  you  to 
school — gave  you  your  chance  at  life — you've  told 
me  all  this  .  .  .  but  it  was  Rand!  And  you  never 
forgot  him !" 

"Never." 

His  brain  was  at  white  heat,  catching  at  the  flash- 
ing colors  of  her  life,  fitting  them  to  a  pattern,  burn- 
ing them  beyond  erasure.  "And  you'd  confess  the 
thing  to  save  him — save  him !"  He  cried  out  again 
with  his  stinging  intuition:  "To  save  him — you 
love  him!" 

She  smiled  drearily:  "To  save  him,  then,"  she 
went  on,  standing  now,  composed,  before  him.  "If 
you  do  not  do  this  thing  to-night — tell  Judge  Rand 
all — I  shall  leave  this  house  for  ever." 

"With  him  ?"  the  husband  cried. 

"Alone." 

"You  shall  not  stir,"  he  muttered,  the  veins  on 
his  white  brow  beating  as  he  wiped  his  head: 
"There's  a  child  to  be  born  to  you.  It's  mine— 
and  you  shall  not  disgrace  it." 

"Well,"  she  went  on  pitilessly,  "it  shall  not  be  born 
here,  under  this  roof — no — never — nor  with  you 
near — never — never !" 

He  stood  as  in  a  dream ;  she  knew  what  his  infinite 
tenderness  had  meant — his  visions  of  the  race-child, 
the  mingling  of  their  variant  blood  for  this  passion 
of  his  life,  the  New  American — the  type  beyond, 
sprung  from  the  moderns,  the  free  and  mighty 


"  If  you   do    not   do   this   thing   to-night ' 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          267 

women — it  was  this  for  which  he  had  married  her, 
the  underflow  of  his  great  thought. 

"No,  it  isn't  so,"  he  muttered;  "a  woman  doesn't 
sacrifice  herself  so — merely  for  an  idea — she  never 
loves  that  way — it's  beyond  her!"  He  added,  from 
his  daze:  "No — her  love— that's  first!" 

"Do  you,  too,  tell  us  that?  Is  that  what  women 
are  ?  For  love  of  him — that's  your  only  idea,  then  ?'5 

"You're  the  guardian  of  a  man's  honor,  his  home, 
his  future,  and  you  wreck  it — for  what?  For  an  old 
passion — Rand !" 

She  turned  wearily  away :  "I  hoped  you'd  under- 
stand. He  told  me  this,  too — that  I  was  not  great 
enough — that  none  of  us  was  great  enough — but 
you. — I  thought  you'd  understand — you  loved  me — 
believed  in  us !  Is  this  all  we  are,  Corbett  ?  Greedy 
creatures  who  cling  passionately  to  man's  love — 
and  only  that?  Who  offer  our  bodies,  lives,  souls, 
for  nothing  but  that?  O,  I  could  go  back  again 
— a  girl  of  the  mills — the  fields — a  peasant  with 
wooden  shoes  and  bent  back  in  the  fields — for  him 
now!  He  took  my  brother,  ignorant,  friendless, 
bloody,  a  hunted  criminal,  he  took  him,  called  him 
brother.  .  .  .  Corbett,  did  you?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  work,  Demetra,  and  you 
— all  I  could  do  for  you." 

"A  man  does  not  need  to  do  anything  for  a 
woman  except  to  keep  himself  a  hero  in  her  eyes — 
that  places  him  beyond  all  laws  and  creeds  for  her. 
Then  she  can  go  be  an  outcast  and  ask  nothing." 


268  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"And  then  she  loves/'  he  retorted,  and  laughed, 
shrilly,  bitterly:  "What  a  joke  it  is!  How  it  all 
comes  back — he,  the  man  who  fired  a  passion  in  you 
— he  comes  back  and  the  old  flame  leaps  up,  ideal- 
izing him,  defying  your  soul  for  him,  asking  me  to 
sacrifice  myself  for  him !  You  told  me  once  of  some 
man  in  your  child  life — I  did  not  question — I  for- 
gave. But  you — you  never  forgot !" 

"Corbett,"  she  answered  quietly,  "are  you  great 
enough  to  believe  me?"  He  stopped  his  outburst, 
the  tone  drove  him  illimitable  leagues  from  her. 
"If  I  tell  you  truth,  are  you  great  enough  to 
believe?" 

"You  confessed  you  loved  him?" 

"I  do  not  love  him." 

"But  you  did — and  you  never  forgot  him!" 

"Will  a  woman  ever  forget  what's  denied  her?" 

"Denied  her?"  he  was  stupid  before  her  purpose: 
"See  here,  what  was  this  man  to  you?" 

"Nothing!"  she  retorted.  "Are  you  big  enough 
to  believe?" 

"What  was  he  to  you?"  the  husband  whispered, 
staring. 

"What  he  is  to-day — the  fool,  the  jester.  He  took 
me  off  the  streets — a  little  animal,  starved,  homeless 
— a  child  with  some  peasant  singers,  who  was  pretty 
and  had  a  voice.  He  bought  me  from  old  Jurak,  the 
master — he  sent  me  to  school  eight  years — the  years 
of  his  downfall,  his  years  that  I  never  knew  of  un- 
til long  after — rich,  luxurious,  learning  new  ways 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          269 

of  life,  giving  me  everything  a  girl  could  want — 
except — "  She  broke  off  and  faced  him.  "Well,  do 
you  believe  me?" 

"Go  on/'  he  muttered. 

"Ah,  well,  in  the  end,  it  seemed,  I  ruined  him. 
I  never  knew  his  other  life — but  they  called  him  a 
renegade  preacher.  And  then,  one  night  Rand  came 
to  me  penniless.  He  tore  the  pearls  he  had  given  me 
from  my  throat  to  sell  for  the  hospital  bills  of  some 
man  he'd  picked  up — and  left  me.  ...  I  never 
saw  him  until  last  Sunday — Easter  Day!" 

"Go  on,"  he  repeated,  his  eyes  following  hers. 

"Well,  you  know  the  rest.  I  came  to  America 
after  my  voice  failed.  Then — Washington — and  I 
met  you  .  .  .  you  brought  me  here  to  the  home 
of  your  benefactor — the  father  of  the  man  to  whom 
I  owed  more  than  life.  And  I  did  not  speak — how 
could  I  speak?  They  said  for  years  that  Rand  was 
dead!" 

Corbett's  gaunt  eyes  glittered :  "And  he  loved 
you." 

"Love?  That  pagan  who  delighted  in  beauty — 
and  let  it  grow?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Demetra?" 

"He  kept  me  as  he  found  me — a  child,  always. 
What  he  meant  for  me  you  might  as  well  ask  the 
wind.  This  only  I  know — he  gave  me  my  chance. 
What  I'd  been  but  for  him — "  She  drew  her  shoul- 
ders out  and  faced  him  calmly:  "Look  at  me! 
Would  I  have  been  a  wife — mother?" 


270          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

His  eyes  were  hopeless  in  their  battling  to  find 
hope  in  hers:  "And  you  never  forgot.  Yes,  a 
woman  could  not  forget  nor  forgive  the  man  who 
denied  her — who  laughed  as  he  does  to-day!"  And 
then  he  tortured  himself  with  this  recurrence :  "To 
save  him — you  love  him!" 

"No — to  be  myself.  O,  is  not  that  plain? — 
plain?"  She  had  come  to  him  again,  pleading,  kneel- 
ing, now,  by  his  chair.  "Corbett,  you'll  do  this! 
Yes,  to  show  him  we  do  not  fear!" 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  looked 
down  to  it;  he  had  become  so  still  again  that  she 
might  have  read  the  answer: 

"There  have  been  times  when  I  was  quite  mad 
about  you,"  he  began  gently.  "There  was  something 
in  you  beyond  me — all  the  fascination  of  a  mystery 
was  in  you.  There  was  the  temple  I  could  not  enter. 
Yes,  a  dream  hung  in  }^our  soul — always  of  him — 
that  no  man  could  be  what  he  might  be — the  terrible 
thing  about  him,  his  heights  and  the  depths  to  which 
he  could  descend,  the  music  of  his  voice,  his  un- 
flinching eyes,  the  incomprehensible  godlike  brutish- 
ness  about  him — he  thought  he  saw  in  you  his  mate, 
a  comrade,  but  you  disappointed  him  .  .  .  and 
now  the  thing's  possessed  you.  O,  my  dear!"  he 
muttered,  "we  see  clearly  now.  The  temple  in  you 
— you  shrined  him  there !" 

She  moved;  her  tears  were  starting:    "You  will 

not  see,"  she  pleaded.    "Suppose  there  was  a  way?" 

He  set  her  head  a  little  farther  back  and  looked 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          271 

steadfastly  at  her:  "To  give  everything  up — to 
bring  Rand  to  this  house — his  place — his  father?" 

"Once  you  dreamed  of  me/'  she  whispered,  cling- 
ing to  him.  "I  was  to  be  a  forerunner  of  the  new, 
wonderful  women  you'd  imagined — a  sort  of  tribune 
of  the  people  with  my  heritage  of  the  old  world. 
In  your  fine  boy's  way  I  was  to  be  something  like 
that,  and  the  mother  of  a  son  for  you !  O,  I  was  to 
be  great — and  you  came  to  find  it  wasn't  in  me !  O, 
you  dreamer!  But  now — suppose  there  was  a  way 
for  us?" 

"You  mean  to  confess  to  this — to  go  down — 
failed — for  you?" 

"For  a  great  love,  Corbett !" 

He  sat  stilled.  It  seemed  the  walled  room  fell 
from  them  to  vistas  of  the  land,  its  endlessness  with 
myriad  destinies  that  in  some  mystic  way  were  inter- 
woven with  his  own.  He  saw  himself  going  from 
it  all  as  from  a  vast  arena,  humbled,  broken,  to  a 
murmur  of  sad  voices — a  leader  fallen — the  pathos 
of  silence  when  he  had  gone.  He  felt  her  arms 
about  him,  now,  drawing  his  head  to  her  own ;  the 
great  sweetness  of  her  breath — she  held  him  with 
her  passion  breaking  full,  a  torrent  now  filling  all 
the  courses  of  his  lonely  life,  its  inner  need  of  wom- 
en, their  strength  of  love,  their  noble  judgments 
.  .  .  and  then,  as  if  stung  by  some  dart  from  her 
embrace,  he  raised  her  white  arms  and  put  her  by 
and  rose. 

"Corbett,"  she  whispered,  "love  me — love  me !" 


272  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Here's  my  life,"  he  answered  slowly,  "my  work. 
It's  not  mine  to  sacrifice  to  save  any  man — it  belongs 
there — "  he  pointed  from  the  windows  to  the  city's 
dark —  "here — there — everywhere  that  it  can  bring 
hope — even  a  word.  The  children  in  Rand's  mills, 
the  children  in  the  Pennsylvania  mines,  the  child 
workers  in  the  glass  factories — everywhere,  in  all 
the  land.  The  fight's  big — they  look  to  me — all  the 
great  hearts  that  hope  to  lift  the  burden — they  look 
to  me  for  leadership.  And  beyond,  all  the  ages — 
the  cleaner  lives — the  happier  souls — the  better  way 
for  the  race  fighting  up — always  up  from  the  brute. 
I  feel  like  one  inspired  with  it  ...  do  you  think 
I'd  give  it  up  to  save  this  man  ?" 

"For  me,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him,  his  calm- 
ness and  his  strength  with  sudden  terror.  "Corbett !" 

"No,  not  for  you." 

"He  took  your  place,  Corbett — your  burden !" 

"Let  him.  What's  his  life  worth?  There  are 
things  beyond  any  man's  life — beyond — beyond! 
Let  him  accept — I  accept !" 

"You'd  let  me  go,"  she  whispered,  and  then, 
mechanically,  she  beat  her  clenched  hands  one  on 
the  other,  dazed  with  his  quietness,  his  power, 
her  failure  with  him :  "I  pleaded  with  you — I  asked 
you  with  all  my  love — and  you  could  save  it.  Good 
God !  You're  sending  me  away,  Corbett — your  child 
with  me !" 

And  he  did  not  move,  merely  looked  at  her ;  while 
the  little  crystal  clock  struck  three. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  next  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  Demetra 
met  John  Bride  as  he  was  passing  from  the 
brick  steps  between  the  gates  of  painted  iron  along 
the  street.  The  old  Scot  greeted  her  with  his  wonted 
cheer. 

"Well,  well,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "a  fairish  day 
— a  bit  frost  coming.  Nelse  says  there'll  be  snow  up 
the  Lake  diveesion,  late  as  it  is." 

But  she  saw  Brother  John's  mind  was  not  on  his 
usual  comforting  affairs  of  the  "Grand  property 
housin'  forty  families."  He  had,  indeed,  come  from 
Stephen  sore  with  hurt.  The  judge  had  sat  apatheti- 
cally through  John's  hale  attempt  at  cheer,  hardly 
speaking,  sunk,  his  chin  on  his  shirt  bosom  with  an 
uncertain  waver.  They  had  had  their  whisky  and 
water,  John  stirring  with  a  tinkle  and  a  quip  before 
the  silent  host,  then  he  had  come  away. 

"A  fairish  day,"  he  went  on,  after  the  greeting, 
"but  bringin'  cold.  I  think  I'll  be  at  my  walk — six 
miles  in  it  will  hearten  a  man." 

Demetra  looked  at  the  sleek  skin  of  John's  face, 
the  stout  hand  over  the  silver  cane  head.  He  had 
the  stuff  about  him  that  goes  well  with  tugging 

273 


274          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

winds  and  north  distances.  "John  Bride/'  she  said, 
"it  seems  that  you've  been  the  one  thing  that  brought 
a  breath  of  life  to  this  house — the  one  man  always 
welcomed." 

She  had  never  spoken  so  to  him ;  she  had  been  the 
beautiful  and  indifferent  alien  giving  him  a  bit  of 
ill-ease.  Now  he  fumbled  his  stick  in  surprise,  his 
eyes  blinking.  "Mrs.  Ennisley,"  he  answered,  "a 
mon  needs  only  carry  his  honesty  before  him — well 
or  ill,  he  canna  fear  wi'  that." 

"There're  some  dare  not,"  she  muttered,  and  he 
looked  alertly. 

"Ye  may  well  say — it  was  indeed  a  strange  thing 
the  other  night."  And  at  this,  as  one  who  had 
waited  for  her  chance,  she  turned  swiftly  on  him: 
"It  was  not  honest!  It  was  not  honest — and  you 
know!" 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  shrewdly:  "There's  this 
and  that  to  consider.  A  weakling  mill-boy — a  puir 
dragged  creature  of  Rand's  shanties — and  then  this 
son  o'  the  house  who  boasts  that  he  despises  all  hu- 
man service — a  defyin'  speerit — a  bucaneer  of  civ- 
ilizeetiori — wha'd  he  care  for  the  children  o'  the 
mills?  Is  that  a  likely  union — this  brotherhood?  I 
think  the  devil's  in  it !" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he's  at  your  house.  You'll  take 
me  there  to  confront  him." 

He  started:  "Eh — you?  He  has  a  sneer  for 
women!  There's  that  Jew  girl  patient  wi'  him— 
but  he  lashes  even  her." 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          275 

"Come,"  the  wife  retorted — "and  now.  I'll  not 
have  another  night.go  by!1' 

He  went  along  at  her  dominant  urging,  but  hesi- 
tant :  "What  is  it  ye'd  have  ?  Ye  can  do  naught — > 
the  girl's  carin'  for  him  and  his  wounds." 

He  saw  her  dark  eyes  dilate :  "What  more  ?"  she 
cried  and  touched  his  sleeve.  "Tell  me,  John  Bride !" 

"I  know  this,"  he  answered,  "Rand  and  the  an- 
archist are  hidden  in  her  rooms — and  the  police  are 
watching  the  place.  Yes.  How,  I  canna  say,  but  the 
baker's  boy  first  called  me  to  it — he  knew  the  de- 
tective they  had  across.  And  I  speered  a  bit  into 
it — someway,  the  neighbors  must  have  noticed  two 
strange  men  and  wounded  hidden  there.,  But  they're 
watched  and  it's  bad.  I  told  them  a',  and  Rand 
would  go  wi'  the  boy — and  Louise  wouldna  have  it 
— she  clung  to  them." 

"To  him?"  The  wife's  grasp  tightened;  he  was 
amazed. 

"Eh? — She  will  not  chance  them  in  the  street — 
no,  not  if  she  was  taken  wi'  them.  Eh?— it  would 
be  hard  to  explain!  But  women — God  save  the 
fools!  When  they  love  they'll  love  the  hand  that 
beats  them !" 

"Do  you  believe,"  she  whispered,  staring  at  him, 
"she  loves  him?  No,  it's  unthinkable!" 

He  studied  her  craftily:  "Nothing  about  ye  is 
impossible,  I  take  it.  Eh? — the  braggart,  the  blus- 
terer !  Why  did  she  take  him  in — why  offer  a'most 
her  life — her  good  name — to  save  him?" 


276  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Come/ '  the  other  woman  retorted,  "let  us  go." 

"To  them?    Ye'd  best  not." 

"I've  heard  strange  things  of  you,  John,"  she  an- 
swered; "that  on  a  dirty  railroad  crossing  you 
spent  eight  hours  a  day  waving  a  red  flag  because 
you  wanted  to  be  in  service — to  go  out  in  service  to 
the  road  you'd  helped  build.  And  men  call  you  crazy 
— but  let  them.  That  is  a  great  thing  to  you,  John !" 

"Ye  canna  know,"  he  muttered.  "Woman,  I  gave 
my  young  blood  and  bone  to  it — the  road  drivin'  on 
always  west  wi'  the  people — now,  I  canna  keep  hand 
off  it.  It's  grand  to  stand  there  lookin'  along  the 
rails  and  think  of  where  it'll  be  leadin' — the  lands 
and  homes  and  cities,  buildin'  greater  for  a'  time. 
Eh  ? — this  America — can  ye  follow  ?" 

"Well,  then— take  me,"  she  retorted.  "I,  too,  will 
show  you  something !" 

They  went  along,  John  Bride  bewildered,  shaking 
his  head,  not  looking  at  her,  but  conscious  of  her 
swing  and  freedom  by  his  side,  her  eagerness  and  ag- 
gression, her  resolves.  And  when  they  came  to  his 
red  brick  block  among  the  dun  warehouses  and 
smoky  environ  of  the  road  ten  squares  to  the  wrest 
among  the  frowsy,  slinking  foreign  people  of  the 
quarter,  he  took  her  up  without  word,  and  before  the 
clean  paint  and  staining  of  the  flat  hallway,  paused 
by  a  nickel  door  number. 

"She  keeps  it  close-locked,"  he  said,  "and  the  bell 
muffled.  Did  ye  notice  the  mon  on  the  grocery  cor- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          277 

ner?  We're  thinkin'  he's  spyin'  on  the  block  to  see 
who  leaves  and  enters — that  is  my  suspicion." 

But  to  her  hand  the  door  opened,  and  they  went 
directly  along  the  passage  to  the  little  back  dining- 
room  with  its  proper  tints  and  polishing  of  wood 
and  new  smells.  There  they  surprised  the  three — 
Louise  by  the  round  table,  paused,  a  coffee-pot  in 
her  hand,;  Rand  by  the  window  and  Karasac  beyond, 
sunk  in  a  chair,  dirty,  ill-arrayed,  sullen. 

The  girl  had  cried  out.  Old  John  interrupted: 
"Ye'r  over  careless  wi'  the  door — there  might  be 
other  guests." 

Louise  stared  at  them — at  Demetra  in  a  sort  of 
fear — then  hurried  without  a  word  down  the  hall. 
They  heard  her  turn  the  latch;  then  she  came  back 
and  was  watching  the  new-comers,  her  breath  sharp 
when  she  spoke. 

"You  here?"  she  said  to  the  other  woman — "for 
what?" 

Her  directness  had  unwelcome,  menace.  The  wife 
felt  Rand's  covert  glance ;  she  put  her  hands  on  the 
back  of  the  chair  John,  drew  up  and  leaning  on  it, 
faced  them.  The  little  room,  its  table  in  disarray, 
the  bread  scattered,  a  salad  despoiled,  had  a  round- 
ing of  fitness  and  content,  even  a  brief,  defiant  gai- 
ety. You  would  have  thought  that  from  the  hostile 
world  three  refugees  were  making  merry,  and  were 
little  disposed  to  this  unexpected  coming. 

"I've  come  for  a  matter  that  needs  few  words. 


278  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

It's  to  you,  Rand — you,  alone.  You  shall  go  back — 
the  thing  is  done." 

His  gray  eyes,  quiet,  unlit,  had  a  moment's  gleam : 
"Your  husband?"  He  sat  forward  with  some  easy 
interest.  "You  told  him  everything,  then?  Why, 
then,  does  he  not  come  with  your  message?" 

The  wife  evaded :  "The  thing's  done,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

Louise  spoke  sharply:  "You've  not  told  him! 
Confessed  that  Karasac's  your  brother!" 

"He  knows,  now."  The  wife  turned  from  her. 
"And  to-night  the  judge  shall  know.  I've  come  to 
tell  you,  Rand — you  shall  go  back." 

He  did  not  appear  as  one  interested,  but  revolving 
some  other  matter. 

"Your  husband?"  he  said  at  length,  for  they  ap- 
peared waiting  on  him — "I  think  I  read  him  well 
enough.  You  told  him — but  he  does  not  dare !  You 
pleaded,  I  imagine,  and  he — eh?  Ah,  the  pity  of  it!" 

She  could  not  endure  his  brooding,  the  measure- 
less pity,  indeed,  in  his  deep  voice.  The  girl  had 
come  nearer:  "Mrs.  Ennisley,  surely  you've  not 
spoken !  Surely  you  know  what  it  means !" 

The  wife  ignored  her;  she  crossed  with  a  simplic- 
ity that  had  a  pathos  greater  than  all  words  to  touch 
the  brother's  hand.  She  spoke  in  Polish,  a  murmur, 
then  a  rising  word — a  cry.  It  was  a  beseeching — an 
appeal,  a  love.  .  .  .  Her  hand,  so — upon  his — 
her  other  raised  to  brush  back  the  matted  hair  from 
his  brow.  And  to  it  all  he  muttered,  he  shook  his 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          279 

head,  then,  with  a  snarl,  leaped  back  from  the  chair 
and  cursed  her  in  their  common  tongue.  She  stood 
pale  before  them,  a  timid  tenderness  unthinkable  in 
her,  reaching  again  to  him — the  splendid  woman  and 
the  black-browed  mill-hand  in  his  dirt  and  hostile 
suspicion. 

"Ludovic,"  she  whispered,  and  he  whipped  out  an 
oath  to  her.  "Brother,"  she  murmured,  and  he  bared 
his  teeth  and  grinned  in  hate. 

The  thing  was  on  them  big.  They  could  not  have 
endured  more.  Old  John  put  forward :  "Leave  be, 
man!"  he  said  dully.  "None  o'  that  now.  The 
woman's  askin'  o'  ye !" 

Louise  reached  to  Rand  across  the  table — the  wife 
saw  her  hand  touch  his,  draw  it  with  a  pressure — 
she  checked  her  hurt ;  she  stood  silent  in  her  abnega- 
tion, looking  again  at  Karasac  by  the  wall  holding 
his  bandaged  elbow,  in  the  unreasoning  anger  of  the 
brute.  Always  his  little  black  eyes  roved  from  Rand 
to  her  and  back. 

"I  came,"  the  wife  said,  "to  take  him  somehow — 
to  acknowledge  him.  Yes,"  she  added,  and  turned 
again  to  Rand.  Beneath  the  sense  of  insult  she 
was  calm.  "To-night,  the  judge  shall  know.  We 
can  do  this  thing — yes,  I,  alone — then  go.  As  God 
lives,  I  can  do  this!" 

"For  what?"  Rand  said.  "You  will  spoil  a  mar- 
velous fancy  of  mine." 

Demetra  had  turned  to  John  Bride:  "This  is 
what  you  could  not  see — my  brother,  here.  And  the 


280          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

other  night  I  knew — yes,  and  I  dared  not  speak 
when  Rand  took  the  blame  on  him.  You  see,  John 
Bride?  This  Karasac  is  my  brother." 

In  his  uncomprehending  it  seemed  a  great  light 
flashed.  He  did  not  cry  out  nor  question,  but  merely, 
his  old  head  shaking,  muttered :  "Puir  bodies !  I 
felt  the  hauntin'  on  them  all !"  And  then,  as  if  he 
did  not  care  to  see  the  woman's  soul  bared  further, 
old  John  stole  softly  to  his  rooms  across  the  hall. 

Back  in  the  little  room  they  listened  further  to 
her.  Louise  once  put  in:  "You  should  not  have 
come  here.  The  house  is  watched  for  some  reason. 
Well,  to-night  they  must  be  moved — must  get  away, 
somehow." 

"He's  mine,"  the  wife  said  clearly.  "My  brother, 
here — mine  to  protect." 

"You  can't,"  the  girl  retorted;  "there's  more  to 
think  of  than  a  piece  of  foolishness.  They're  hunted 
— both  of  them — and  they've  got  to  get  away." 

Rand's  ceaseless  eyes  were  on  them,  one  to  the 
other.  His  rare  smile  came — it  had  a  trace  of  sleepy 
malice.  "To  paint  the  lily,  and  to  gild  pure  gold," 
he  put  in.  "Eh? — what  has  come  out  of  the  old 
death's  head  of  a  house?  What  miracles?  Tell  me! 
You  will,  Demetra,  for  some  idea  wholly  beyond 
you,  wreck  yourself,  the  professor,  and  all  he's  at, 
to  save  me — I  who  take  my  catgut  soul  and  fiddle 
on  it  while  I  watch  the  rest  of  you  burning?  I  will 
confess  to  you  an  extraordinary  thing  ...  I 
do  not  believe  I'm  worth  it !" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          281 

The  wife  watched  him  steadily :  "No.  But  there 
is  this  greater  than  you.  To  prove  myself — to  go 
simply  to  what  needs  be.  I  can  accept/* 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  dissembling  surprise. 
"I,"  he  went  on  sententiously,  "would  like  to  see 
it.  Demetra — with  something  of  the  magnificent 
barbarian  about  you — that  you  should  be  so  aroused ! 
Good  heavens,  it  would  be  worth  a  score  of  com- 
mon years — to  see  you  rise  and  tell  the  justice  that 
I,  his  son,  am  a  person  much  maligned ;  that  I  am, 
indeed,  a  hero  with  something  of  the  proportions 
of  a  demigod !  It  would  be  worth  the  hearing." 

She  turned  from  them  to  the  door :  "No  matter 
— you  shall  come." 

Louise  came  between  them.  "You'll  not,"  she 
answered  sharply.  "Don't  you  see  what  it  would 
mean?  All  Doctor  Ennisley's  built  in  a  lifetime — the 
thing  he's  fought  for.  I  think  he  can  be  the  first  to 
point  to  the  dawn  of  a  new  day.  He  will  make  so- 
cialism a  thing  appealing  to  men's  imaginations.  He 
has  it  in  him,  and  he's  coming  on  so  fast,  so  far. 
No,  you  shan't  wreck  it  with  this — this  anarchist — 
this  brother!" 

"Louise,  once  you  loved  him,"  the  wife  cried, 
"and  it's  dead,  now!  O,  you  can  talk  of  your  so- 
cialism and  greater  things,  but  a  woman  can't  mind 
that !  This  thing's  crushed  him,  and  you've  had  your 
dream  killed — the  thing  in  him  you  loved !" 

"Be  still,  there's  no  use  in  this,"  the  other  whis- 
pered. 


282  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"But  I'll  not  be  still.  He  shall  go  on  and  be  great. 
O,  yes — there's  a  way  for  him,  too !  Do  you  think 
he  could  go  all  his  life  long  under  this?  Rand  sent 
away,  an  outcast,  laughing — and  Corbett  knew! 
Good  God!  can  any  man  be  great  for  the  work  of 
the  world  and  have  that  on  his  soul  ?"  And  then  she 
whipped  about  on  him :  "Here's  Rand — he  shall  not 
go!" 

"Rand?"  the  girl  said  slowly.  "Let  him  go. 
What's  a  single  life  worth  against  the  others?" 

He  nodded,  but  with  no  trace  of  feeling:  "An 
addled  knight,  fighting  windmills.  Consider  me  so 
if  you  wish — and  if  it  will  cause  your  voices  to 
lower!  Old  John's  tenants  may  have  Scotch  ears." 

"You  shall  not  drag  the  doctor  into  it,"  the  girl 
said  hotly.  "There's  more  than  he  or  Rand,  I  tell 
you.  What's  one  man's  soul?" 

"There's  mine,"  the  other  woman  answered. 
"One  must  see  to  one's  own." 

Rand  had  risen ;  he  bowed  gravely :  "One's  soul 
is  altogether  one's  own  property.  I,  indeed,  have 
wrangled  that  my  life  long  and  found  none  to  agree 
in  practice.  Women,  at  least,  are  bound  to  be  hitch- 
ing some  baggage  to  it ;  or — as  it  were — making  of 
the  thing  a  duet.  One  ought  to  be  free  to  draw  from 
it  what  one  will ;  a  strain  to  mingle  with  the  seraphic 
choir,  or,  as  I  prefer  at  times — to  make  mine  catgut 
on  which  to  fiddle  the  lively  ditties  of  the  day.  God's 
sun  is  warm.  I  sit  in  it  and  caterwaul  as  long  as  He 
will  let  it  shine.  .  .  .  It's  not  my  affair  to  meddle 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          283 

with — to  inquire  why  He  is  He,  and  I  am  I — but 
yet  I  can  sit  here  and  discuss  it  with  lively  interest. 
Here  we  are — the  three  of  us — and  at  a  most  extra- 
ordinary moment  of  living.  I  feel  about  me  ex- 
quisite and  hidden  essences  of  mind — soul.  I  am 
positively  acute  with  it.  It  is  rare,  indeed,  to  come 
upon  a  matter  such  as  this." 

The  women  looked  upon  him;  the  face  of  one  had 
colored — the  other  was  as  steel.  And  the  last  went 
on :  "Yes,  it's  like  you  now,  to  pause  and  divert  your- 
self— to  pick  fine  words  and  make  a  bit  of  fooling 
of  it  all.  O,  very  like  you !" 

"One  of  the  distressing  things  is  the  mere  frag- 
mentary catching  at  things  with  which  we  have  to  be 
content,"  he  answered.  "Even  I  can  not  quite  attain 
the  necessary  impersonality.  My  vanity  is  for  ever 
rendering  me  disastrously  human.  I  lose  much 
through  the  weaknesses  common  to  you  all/' 

"Be  still !"  she  cried.  "I've  only  asked  you  this — 
that  you  shall  come  to-night  and  find  whether  I  have 
dared  or  not !  You  shall  not  go  life  long  thinking 
this — you  shall  hear  me !" 

He  appeared  distantly  amused.    "I  shall  be  there." 

Louise  was  quick  upon  him :  "No,"  she  said,  "you 
can't.  You  know  how  matters  are  here — the  house 
watched — and  then  she  must  not  tell  this  thing  to 
your  father — no,  at  any  cost — no !" 

"My  father?  Did  you  think  I  feared  him?  I 
could  stand  before  the  devil,  and,  if  my  digestion 
was  well,  out-talk  him." 


284          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

The  older  woman  went  from  the  room  and  along 
the  passage.  They  heard  her  snap  the  lock  and  go 
out.  The  mill-hand  looked  after  her  in  his  suspicion, 
his  helplessness  ever  to  Rand's  moods.  Louise  came 
hotly  to  Rand.  "She's  mad  with  it  all — see  what 
you've  done !" 

"It  is  excellently  done.  I  believe  I  shall  yet  awake 
the  soul  in  her." 

"Ah,  you!"  the  girl  cried  out,  and  turned  away. 
"You're  not  human  .  .  .  and  yet  half  an  hour 
ago,  it  seemed  I  had  some  desperate  hope  in  you — 
you  had  a  gentleness — a  humor — O,  what's  in  you?" 

"You  had  a  hope?"  he  asked  leisurely.  "Of 
what?" 

She  looked  at  him  confused.  Her  eyes  had  not 
their  clear  and  fixing  steadiness  of  yesterday :  "You 
are  the  falsest,  the  most  ridiculous  person  I  ever 
knew!" 

"Yet,"  he  answered  gravely,  "you'd  sell  ten  years 
of  life  to  prove  to  yourself  that  I  was  not." 

She  went  on  in  her  feeling:  "See  what  you've 
done — you've  goaded  her  to  confession.  The  doctor 
— his  place.  I  tell  you,"  she  added  resolutely,  "you 
must  save  him  yet.  I  tell  you,  you  must — you  must 
find  a  way." 

The  anarchist  had  gone  out;  they  heard  him  in 
the  farther  sleeping-room,  groping  about  among  the 
furnishings.  Rand  slowly  took  the  girl's  hands 
across  the  table,  drew  her  near,  studied  her. 

"There's  in  you,"  he  began,   "the  thing  that's 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  285 

driven  men  to  the  block.    You  could  walk  out  and 
lay  down  your  own  head  for  that  which  you  loved." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "what's  greater — tell  me?'5 

"The  man,"  he  remarked  airily,  "is  not  worth 
your  while.  Eh? — there's  the  wife  who  can  hold 
him  by  a  hair." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  him,"  she  muttered.  "No 
— not  now.  And  you've  played  on  her — driven  her 
to  what  she  thinks  is  a  great  sacrifice.  You,  who've 
jeered  at  women — there's  one  woman's  answer." 

He  smiled  with  his  ironic  assurance:  "And  for 
what — tell  me  ?  Eh  ? — Disinterestedly,  I  should  say 
she  loves  me." 

The  girl  drew  from  him :  "And  you  can  speak  of 
that!  So!  Calmly — as  if  it  were  a  play  you're 
watching!  Loved  you? — suppose  she  did?" 

"Her  soul,"  he  answered,  from  his  thought.  "I 
still  will  polish  the  thing — Eh? — I'd  rub  it,  as  one 
would  a  flawless  gem,  clean  and  complete  its  beauty 
— and  then,  on  a  bit  of  velvet — with  a  bow — hand 
it  back  to  her  and  assure  her:  'Madam,  it  is  very 
good,  indeed !  But  my  taste  runs  to  simpler  effects !' ' 

"And  you?"  Louise  murmured.  "And  then — ah, 
you!" 

"I,"  he  answered,  with  some  circumspection, 
"would  then  go  on  to  the  next  study  one  might  find 
of  interest." 

She  sat  back  and  could  not  look  at  him  for  a 
moment.  "Well,  then,"  she  said,  after  her  abstrac- 
tion, "if  that's  the  way  you  look  at  things,  here's  the 


286          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

man's  honor — his  career — beyond,  a  matchless 
chance  to  find  this  jewel  of  good  deed  you're  always 
seeking,  it  seems,  as  a  collector  does  his  gems.  O, 
you  could  save  him  for  his  work — his  life's  pur- 
poses !" 

"Granted.  And  if  I  could  induce  you  women  to 
keep  your  hands  off  and  cease  tinkering  with  your 
sentimentalisms,  I'd  accomplish  it." 

She  turned  on  him  intently.  His  round  face  was 
unmoved — her  blue  eyes  searched  him  long.  "I 
don't  love  him,"  she  muttered,  at  last.  "You  should 
know  that  now!" 

"Obviously.  I've  broken  the  thing.  But  here  I 
am  about  to  complete  my  ruin  for  what  you  hold 
beyond  anything  in  your  life — to  protect  your  fan- 
atic's dream  of  the  social  regeneration — which  I 
have  not  a  deal  of  faith  in,  sure  as  it  is  to  come.  I 
say  that  I,  Rand,  am  about  to  take  off  my  hat,  bow 
gravely,  and  mount  the  scaffold  for  you  and  your 
visions  ...  in  return  therefor,  my  dear  young 
woman,  you  will  love  me." 

She  rose  from  him,  looking  down,  unflinching. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on  with  some 
patience:  "That  is  the  distressing  thing  about 
women.  You  confuse  all  our  heroisms  with  some- 
thing of  the  sort." 

For  a  time  she  had  no  answer;  then,  from  the 
other  door,  she  turned,  her  eyes  unfearingly  on  him: 
"I'll  not,"  she  said  clearly — "I  shall  not  love  you— 
never  .  .  .  never!" 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          287 

He  rubbed  his  chin  with  some  concern :  "Possibly 
not.  You  have  the  merest  chance  of  escape  by  the 
law  of  averages.  But  wait — let  us  round  the  thing — 
let  us  make  it  a  brilliant  to  flash  in  the  sun.  Eh  ? — it 
will  be  of  amazing  interest!  Let  us  see  to  it  purely 
with  the  eye  of  the  master-craftsman  ...  we 
may,  indeed,  find  a  marvel  surpassing  all." 

She  did  not  try  to  answer.  He  got  up  and  looking 
at  the  clock,  assured  her  good  night  with  his  usual 
gravity ;  then  went  to  the  room  in  the  rear.  She  did 
not  move  for  a  time — her  eyes  were  intent  on  the 
court  window  through  which  she  saw  him  moving 
to  lay  about  the  other  sleeping  man  the  blanket  from 
his  own  bed.  The  spring  air  was  cold. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  wife  went  back  through  the  wet  spring 
night,  the  press  of  a  tepid  and  fitful  wind  from 
off  the  lake  upon  her  cheek,  heralding  more  of  the 
showers  that  had  made  the  week  uncertain  with  its 
intermittent  sunshine  and  its  cool  north  breath. 
When  she  reached  the  rooms  she  threw  open  the 
windows  so  that  the  damp  puffing  came  in.  Corbett 
was  not  in  his  study;  she  remembered  having  seen 
a  light  in  the  library — at  times  he  studied  there. 
She  put  off  her  street  things  and  went  to  the  main 
portion  of  the  house,  and  when  she  reached  the  door 
from  the  hall,  she  heard  voices  in  the  library.  She 
saw  beyond,  Corbett  sitting,  his  arm  about  his 
mother,  and  her  thin  fingers  on  his  brow.  She  was 
murmuring  in  her  shy  restraint  of  love,  and  they 
did  not  stir  when  the  wife  came.  Only  the  old 
mother  looked  up  inquiringly,  almost  unfriendly  at 
first,  to  the  intrusion.  Corbett  was  looking  away, 
the  profile  of  his  beard,  full  nose  and  white  brow 
high,  clear-cut.  Demetra  had  ever  a  detached  admi- 
ration for  the  daintiness  about  him,  oddly  variant 
with  his  studies,  his  fighting  life,  his  rude  upbring- 
ing, his  hot  ardors — his  clean,  trim  aspect  had  al- 

288 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          289 

ways  satisfied  the  esthete's  sense  in  her,  if  nothing 
more.  And  when  he  turned  and  saw  her,  she  was 
conscious  of  this  same  detached  liking  of  his  clean 
personality,  his  charm  of  manner. 

But  his  eyes  winced  at  sight  of  her,  the  well-loved, 
the  beautiful  always  to  him;  the  full  figure  in  its 
dark  close-fitting  serge,  the  laced  neck,  making  a 
delicate  net  colored  with  the  flesh  beneath — it  rushed 
to  him  as  a  hot  tide  that  he  loved  her  splendidly,  his 
ardent  life  with  ever  its  underrunning  note  of  lonely 
pathos,  the  need  of  strength  behind  him. 

"Dear — "  he  said,  and  stopped.  His  mother's 
arm  slipped  from  him ;  the  old  lady  got  up  with  the 
air  of  a  school-girl  caught  at  love-making. 

"I  been  sparkin'  with  your  boy,"  she  said. 

The  wife  smiled  faintly.  "I've  been  looking  for 
him,"  she  went  on.  And  then,  as  if  the  fullness  of 
it  would  not  be  denied :  "Corbett,  I've  sent  word  to 
Judge  Rand  that  he  meet  us  here.  .  .  .  I'm  glad 
you're  already  on  the  spot." 

He  looked  hopelessly  at  her.  "You're  still  deter- 
mined," he  muttered,  and  then  looked  at  his  mother. 
"Demetra,  can't  you  wait?  This  is  no  time  to  dis- 
cuss it." 

"There's  no  need  for  pretense."  She  crossed  and 
threw  open  the  tall  unwieldy  shutters,  and  heard  him 
whisper :  "Incredible — madness !" 

"Nothing  more  sure — more  sane.  I've  asked  him 
here — and  Rand  will  come  at  nine  .  .  .  and  you 
shall  tell  them,  Corbett !" 


290          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

He  would  not  answer  to  her  incision.  The  old 
woman  looked  about  perplexed.  "What  now?  The 
judge's  wild  limb  of  a  son — has  he  been  arrested 
with  that  boy  yit?" 

They  each  turned  to  her.  "Corbett,"  the  wife 
said  composedly,  "now  tell  her — tell  them  all  the 
truth!" 

And  he  went  down  the  long  room  to  the  windows 
where  she  stood,  her  clear  voice  ringing,  and  left  the 
mother  by  the  table,  groping  blindly  among  their  di- 
rectnesses. 

"I  asked  you  once  before,"  Demetra  went  on,  "to 
speak." 

"And  I  told  you  I'd  not.  I'm  guilty  of  no  wrong 
to  any  man.  And  if  this  thing's  come  on  me — that 
a  mill-boy  whom  I  raised  a  bit  from  the  brutish  child 
he  was,  is  your  brother — if  he  came  flying  back  to 
me  in  his  hate  and  fear,  that's  no  fault  pf  mine." 

"Another  man  took  your  place — we  were  not 
great  enough  to  go  his  way.  No — no !" 

"You  love  him,"  the  husband  answered  listlessly, 
"I  can  see  it  in  you,  always  now."  Then  his  voice 
broke :  "A  sort  of  madness  in  you !" 

"I  was  never  so  calm — so  clear.  O,  it  seems  I 
never  before  was  awake !  I  slept  as  he  told  me — a 
cat  by  a  fire  and  all  about  me  was  the  fight  and 
struggle.  There  were  my  people.  It  seems  I  must 
have  fattened  on  them  here  with  you." 

"You  feel  this?"  he  muttered.  "What's  come  to 
lyou?  Great  God,  if  you'd  felt  that  at  the  first— 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          291 

what  I  imagined  I  saw  in  you!"  Then  he  went  on 
in  a  swift  appeal :  "Demetra,  this  boy — there'll  be 
a  way  found  to  protect  him  without  our  confessing. 
I'm  in  a  position  where  a  pebble's  weight  against  me 
would  topple  the  whole  thing  I've  built — all  I've 
done  with  my  life." 

"Let  it  tumble,"  she  retorted,  "if  it's  built  on 
lies." 

He  stared  at  her  calm  face,  he  reached  to  touch 
her  arm ;  his  voice  came  low  and  hard :  "Mine's  a 
man's  work,  and  who  can  take  my  place  ?  The  good 
that  I  can  do  ?  And  you'd  ask  me  to  throw  it  over 
for  a  woman's  whim." 

"A  woman's  whim?"  Her  voice  was  curiously 
intent:  "Go  on — I  want  to  hear  you  out,"  she 
added. 

"Yes,  an  insane  idea  of  chivalry,  I  call  it.  To 
sacrifice  everything  for  the  sake  of  one — and  that 
one,  Rand!  If  you  knew  all — if  you  could  realize 
where  I  stand — that  they  say  I'm  the  man  whose  in- 
fluence is  arousing  the  lethargy  of  the  universities — 
that  here  I'm  teaching  to  the  young  manhood  of  the 
state  the  juster  social  relations — the  dawn  of  the 
new  day." 

"The  new  day?"  she  repeated:  "Well,  for  me 
it's  here!" 

"You're  mad,"  he  muttered,  "you  can't  mean  it !" 

"Yes,"  she  drew  from  him,  "I  shall  go." 

He  looked  at  her  and  did  not  flinch.  "Well  then, 
if  you  think  I  fear,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  can  give 


292  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

up.  I  love  you — you  know  I  love  you — the  dearest 
thing  in  all  my  life — but  I'll  give  you  up  for  the 
greater  thing  beyond.  Yes,  I'll  have  you  think  me 
a  coward,  and  I'll  be  patient  with  it  all  my  life. 
.  .  .  I  can  do  that,  and  you  can  go." 

She  stepped  farther  back;  she  seemed  in  wonder 
at  this  fanaticism  beyond  their  pettiness  of  fortunes. 
And  then  she  muttered :  "Corbett,  you're  suffering 
so!" 

"No  matter.  I've  come  up  fighting — I'll  go  down 
fighting.  You  can  ruin  me,  but  some  way  I'll  fight 
back — I'll  clear  myself." 

"But  you  love  me,  Corbett !" 

And  to  her  cry,  he  answered :  "God  knows  that. 
I  placed  you  higher  than  anything  in  my  life,  except 
a  man's  work  .  .  .  that's  beyond  us  all." 

"Well,"  she  said  patiently,  "I'll  go  to-night." 

"To-night?"  His  hopeless  tone  returned,  his 
eye's  resolution  sank.  "There's  no  need — to-night." 

"I'll  not  spend  it  beneath  this  roof,  or  with  you. 
And  in  late  summer  my  child  shall  come.  Corbett, 
I'll  let  you  know  of  it." 

He  cried  out  sharply,  groping  his  way  back  to  his 
mother,  who  had  risen,  bewildered,  grasping  here 
and  there  a  meaning,  giving  now  and  then  an  inar- 
ticulation  of  amazement. 

And  when  he  had  reached  her  they  saw  in  the  hall 
door  the  master  of  the  house.  The  light  was  on 
his  white  thin  hair,  the  Roman  face,  smooth,  gray, 
the  plum-colored  jacket  and  white  waistcoat.  He 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  293 

looked  in  apathetically.    "My  dear,"  he  asked  of 
Demetra,  "what's  this?" 

She  paused.  Corbett,  beyond  her,  faced  him 
calmly :  "My  wife  is  leaving  me." 

The  old  man  did  not  comprehend ;  only  the  mother 
murmured,  staring. 

"Eh?"  the  justice  said:  "It's  a  bad  night  out, 
Mrs.  Ennisley."  He  fingered  his  watch  fob  list- 
lessly. "You'd  best  have  the  carriage  ordered  if 
you're  going  out." 

And  on  their  stillness,  he  turned,  his  old  eyes  dull- 
ing :  "Doctor,  I  am  not  well.  This  has  been  strange 
— my  son  home — then  back  to  the  darkness  from 
whence  he  came." 

"He's  gone  beyond  us  all  to  the  new  day." 
The  father  turned  to  Demetra  curiously.    "Eh  ? — 
a  day?" 

"He  has  found,"  she  said,  "the  brotherhood." 
Stephen  raised  his  hand :    "You  puzzle  me — you 
speak  riddles." 

"No,  it's  very  clear — as  all  great  things  are  sim- 
ple." 

The  old  man  nodded  to  her,  his  tired  eyes  closing : 
"Strange — strange." 

The  wife  went  swiftly  to  Corbett.  "Speak,"  she 
whispered,  "you  can  save  me !" 

But  he  did  nothing  except  to  say  resolutely :  "Sir, 
my  wife  is  leaving  me." 

Clinging  to  his  arm  the  old  woman  fluttered  in  ap- 
prehension. The  justice  turned  a  face  resigned  with 


294          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

the  querulous  half-patience  of  the  aged :  "Leaving 
— this  house?"  He  turned  now  to  her:  "Mrs. 
Ennisley?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  the  tone  troubled  him;  he 
leaned  heavily  on  the  chair  back  and  nodded :  "Why, 
no — my  friends.  Impossible !"  He  peered  curiously 
at  them.  "You  mean  to  say  you're  parting?" 

The  wife  came  before  him:  "I  asked  you  here. 
I  would  like  to  have  had  you  in  your  robes.  O,  I 
wanted  it  great  enough  for  that — I  wanted  to  be 
proud — "  she  turned  to  Corbett;  he  saw  her  agony — 
"Ah,  well — there's  nothing  now  to  say!  He  failed!" 

The  justice  stood  doubting:  "Why,  Doctor,"  he 
began,  "you  love  her !" 

-Yes— yes." 

And  to  his  exclamation  the  wife  brought  her  cry: 
"You  love  me,  and  you'll  give  me  up!  That's  the 
horror  of  it — but  men  can  do  it!" 

"But  my  dear,"  the  judge  went  on,  more  evenly, 
"we  need  you.  I — Brother  John — you've  seemed  to 
brighten  this  old  place  a  bit.  And  your  husband — 
his  work  .  .  .  you  must  help  him.  I'm  leaving 
much  to  him." 

"He's  the  stronger  now,"  she  answered,  and 
turned  again  to  the  old  man  and  put  her  hand  upon 
his  sleeve :  "Your  son  is  coming,"  she  said  clearly, 
"at  nine — it  is  very  near  now.  Let's  wait — I'd 
much  rather  he  were  here  for  every  word  of  it." 

And  Corbett  hardly  stifled  his  cry.  The  father 
trying  to  straighten  his  bent  form  to  its  old  diminu- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  295 

live  but  notable  dignity,  went  on  with  his  expostula- 
tions :  "My  son  back?  What  can  you  mean?  And 
you  leaving?  What  can  it  be?" 

"Wait,"  the  wife  said  calmly.  "Rand  will  be 
here.  Be  seated."  And  the  father  hobbled  back 
to  his  great  chair,  sat  shaking  his  head  at  them ;  by 
the  door  the  wife  stood,  tall,  silent,  listening  in  a  sort 
of  stealth.  They  waited  for  him — always  this  house 
was  waiting  for  him  to  come  and  jeer,  to  break  and 
mock — to  solve  the  thing. 

The  judge  began  his  bewildered  muttering  pres- 
ently, and  then  Demetra  stole  forward  with  a  warn- 
ing. She  listened,  flew  to  the  door ;  they  heard  her 
exclamation  in  the  hall ;  and  Rand  had  come  in  while 
she  closed  it — was  before  them  shaking  a  sparkle  of 
rain  from  his  big  shoulders,  crushing  back  his  gray 
hat  to  look  about.  The  wife  followed. 

"He's  here,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  authority. 

The  old  man  rose,  seeming  to  harden  himself  to 
answer:  "Three  nights  ago  I  sent  you  from  this 
house." 

"And  I've  come  back.  You  might  have  expected 
I'd  come  back  if  the  fancy  took  me." 

"I  sent  for  him,"  the  wife  put  in — "he  knows — 
Corbett  knows.  Now  you  shall  all  know.  Rand's 
here — that  much  is  due  him." 

"Due  me?  All  life  is  due  me,  but  who  gets  a 
tenth  the  world  owes  him.  It's  a  thief,  a  rascally 
trader  that  sneaks  and  bargains.  It  owes  us  joy, 
sunlight,  peace — and  we're  cowardly  beggars  who 


296  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

dare  not  take  by  force.  I've  wondered  that  men 
should  stand  so  pitifully  dumb  and  be  denied — that 
they  should  mumble  prayers  and  mind  laws — eh? 
For  what? — to  let  the  fruit  go  unsucked  just  out  of 
their  bruised  fingers.  That's  another  marvel  that  I 
see!" 

"My  son,"  the  old  man  muttered;  and  the  wife 
hastened:  "Be  still — I  did  not  bring  you  here  to 
preach  to  us.  Judge  Rand,  you  called  him  'son'  just 
now  ...  he  shall  be  that  again."  She  looked 
back  at  Corbett,  calm,  his  arms  folded,  the  mother  by 
him.  "I've  given  up  all." 

"She's  leaving  this  house,"  the  husband  added 
coolly. 

"Alone  ?"  Rand  asked,  regarding  him. 
"Alone,"  the  other  retorted. 
"You'd  not  speak — not  even   for  your  love  of 
her?" 

"Not  for  the  love  of  any  woman.  Rand,  you 
know  well  enough.  Here  she  could  stay — I'd  pro- 
tect her — I'd  find  a  way  to  save  her  good  name — 
yes,  I'd  fight  for  her  all  my  life  long,  but  I'd  not 
give  up  my  work  for  her — the  higher  truth — the 
greater  love!  O,  man,  is  it  beyond  you  to  under- 
stand me?" 

The  other  man  was  curiously  stilled. 
"And  let  you  go,"  the  wife  put  in,  "the  outcast!" 
"He's  boasted  that  was  his  great  way — his  broth- 
erhood of  the  road.    Well,  that's  his  way,  but  here's 
mine." 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          297 

"You've  done  this?"  Rand  muttered,  still  ab- 
sorbed: "Man,  she's  free  of  you!" 

"She  can  go,"  Corbett  retorted  quickly,  "the  way 
is  open." 

"I  can  go,"  the  wife  began,  her  calm  breaking 
here  and  there  in  her  voice :  "I  can  take  him — es- 
cape somehow — somewhere.  It  will  not  matter. 
Back  to  our  people,  if  need  be — the  mills,  the  tene- 
ments— the  dirty  shops — anywhere,  to  be  myself — 
and  true !"  They  stirred  before  her — she  went  on : 
"You  told  me  that  I — that  women  were  not  strong 
enough — great  enough — that  I — Demetrai — was 
only  a  woman — a  creature  moved  by  passion  for  one 
or  the  other  of  you — no  more  .  .  .  that  I  could 
give  nothing  except  that.  Ah,  well !"  She  crossed 
before  them  to  the  old  man's  chair — "Here,  now," 
she  cried— "I  speak!" 

The  old  man  struggled  up  amazed,  and  she  took 
his  hand  and  drew  him  out  a  step. 

"He  shall  judge  me — he  shall  say  if  I've  been  less 
than  either  of  you!"  And  then,  to  the  old  man's 
quavering,  she  went  on  dispassionately:  "You've 
been  kind  to  me — your  home,  my  home — your  pro- 
tection and  your  friendship — well,  we've  built  our 
lives  on  it.  But  I'm  not  what  you  thought.  Judge 
Rand,  a  girl  of  your  mills  South !  A  sister  to  that 
man  who  came  here — Karasac,  the  anarchist." 

He  muttered  the  name  and  was  puzzled  still :  "The 
mill-boy,"  she  continued,  "my  brother,  and  we 
knew1 — we  knew,  and  did  not  speak.  And  Rand 


298          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

took  the  thing  on  him — he  lied  ...  to  save  us, 
he  lied!" 

"Karasac — your  brother?"  The  old  man's  doubt- 
ful note  arose.  He  faced  the  men :  'The  mill-boy  ? 
He  came  to  find  her?  Sir,  will  you  tell  me 
truth?"  His  eyes  were  on  his  son;  but  the  woman 
spoke  before  them:  "He  knew  nothing — he  never 
saw  this  boy  until  last  Monday.  And  Karasac  fled 
here  to  find  protection  from  us — us — do  you  see 
that!  A  boy  of  the  mills  whom  Corbett  taught — 
his  friend — my  brother — don't  you  see  that!"  she 
cried  again,  her  passion  rising. 

"You  brought  me  here,"  the  judge  began,  "to  lis- 
ten to  this  astounding  story !" 

"And  we'll  go,"  the  woman  said,  "people  of  the 
mills  where  you  breed  hate  and  fear.  My  brother — 
see  what  America  made  of  him — a  rat — a  thing  de- 
spising me.  That's  what  the  mills  do  ...  he  was 
a  child  there!" 

"The  mills,"  the  old  man  murmured.  "They 
trouble  me."  His  head  shook  wearily ;  then  turned : 
"Doctor,  you've  done  this  ?" 

"The  thing's  true.  The  mill-boy  was  my  pupil — 
I  tried  to  raise  him.  Well,  I  can  go,  too."  He 
turned  from  them  to  the  window.  "There's  a  man's 
work  somewhere,  even  yet!" 

"Go?"  The  justice's  cracked  voice  arose :  "Doc- 
tor, you  can't  go.  I've  been  strangely  moved  of  late. 
That  boy's  face  the  other  night — a  child  raised  in 
my  mills— its  hate,  its  fear,  its  infamy.  In  the 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER  299 

shadows  of  my  house  I  saw  it — it  seems  to  haunt 
me."  He  moved  down  the  room ;  he  tottered  a  little, 
and  went  on :  "Eh,  Doctor?  You  can't  leave  me— 
there's  much  to  do.  To-day  I  signed  away  two  hun- 
dred thousand  for  the  training  school  down  there. 
Man,  was  not  that  what  you  were  after?" 

Corbett  turned — his  eyes  a  trifle  wild.  The  old 
man  muttered  on :  "Some  light — a  little  kindlier — 
perhaps  more  just  .  .  .  that  boy's  brute  face — a 
child  raised  in  Rand's  mills." 

"You  mean — "  Corbett  quivered  with  it —  "my 
work's  going  on?" 

"Who  else?"  the  justice  answered  wearily.  "Man, 
you  can  not  leave  it." 

The  wife  had  stirred:  she  came  near  them  and 
spoke  confusedly:  "You  forgive  all?"  she  said,  and 
repeated  it:  "Forgive — forgive?"  And  then  she 
cried :  "The  mills  where  you  crushed  us !  Stanis- 
laus— Joseph — little  Marta !  And  Ludovic,  living — 
see  what  they  made  of  him !  An  anarchist — hunted, 
now — no  place  for  him  in  all  America !  No  friend 
— nothing !" 

"The  boy?"  the  justice  added  mildly,  seeming 
dazed  again,  "Let  him  be  treated  kindly.  Perhaps 
there's  much  to  say — a  boy  raised  in  the  mills." 

"He  can't,"  Corbett  retorted.  "The  police— they'd 
dog  him  to  the  earth — they'd  hang  him  .  .  .  five 
of  them  were  killed." 

"True — true — "  the  judge  was  thoughtful.  "The 
law — he'd  have  to  face  it." 


300  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"What  justice  could  there  be  for  him?"  the  wife 
cried —  "for  us — now,  it's  done — what  justice?" 

The  judge  gently  raised  his  hand.  "It's  a  prob- 
lem. The  law  can  not  consider  every  phase  of  it." 
He  sighed:  "If  there  was  a  way.  Here's  the  doc- 
tor's work — here's  the  good  name  of  this  house — 
if  there  was  a  way — " 

Rand  grimaced:  "I  was  waiting  for  that — your 
reputations,  eh  ?  Yes,  you'd  look  first  to  your  good 
names  if  the  race  rotted  for  it." 

The  wife's  face  set  hard.  "Well,  at  least  I  have 
not  feared.  I  can  go !" 

"She  can't  see,"  the  husband  said,  "how  a  man 
might  love  her  and  refuse  her.  We  may  as  well  all 
know,  Judge.  Here's  the  man  who  first  awoke  in 
her  a  child's  passion.  An  actor,  genius,  fool — 
whatever  he  is  to  stab  the  world  with  his  tongue. 
And  I — I'm  a  man  of  home  and  child  and  work — I 
offered  that,  but  she'd  rather  go." 

"She  can  not  go,"  the  justice  muttered,  "it's  mad- 
ness!" He  went  to  her:  "Madam,  your  place  is 
here  by  his  side." 

"My  brother,"  she  retorted,  and  was  still. 

They  looked  at  Rand.  He  rubbed  his  finger-tips, 
his  grimace  came. 

"The  beast-brother,"  he  said,  "is  mine.  I  would 
be  for  ever  consumed  with  curiosity  if  I  gave  him  up. 
Eh?  The  soul  of  the  beast?  One  might  find  it  in 
time!" 

"My  son,"  the  old  man  muttered,  "the  affair  ap- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  301 

pears  to  be  on  you.  We've  stood  within  your  power 
— now  it  seems  we  turn  to  you  in  the  dark." 

The  outcast  twirled  his  fingers  with  the  air  of  a 
diagnostician  to  whom  is  propounded  a  query  un- 
worthy of  his  powers.  "Nothing  easier.  I  have 
lectured  you  more  than  enough — you've  been  dili- 
gent pupils.  Go  about  your  affairs — be  as  human  as 
you  can — I  will  not  expect  too  much  of  you.  And  I 
will  be  off  with  the  brother — there  is  no  chance  for 
him  here,  that's  sure." 

"You'll  leave,"  the  wife  cried.  "Good  God,  have 
you  no  common  feeling?" 

"I?  I  am  exasperatingly  sentimental.  I  am  for 
ever  immersed  in  human  feeling  from  every  one 
about  me.  Eh? — if  I  could  ever  attain  the  purely 
scientific  attitude !  But  I'm  too  much  a  poet  of  the 
senses — I've  too  much  a  heart  open  to  the  world — 
I  am  far  too  religious.  ...  I  dig  for  truth  un- 
fearingly,  and  then,  when  I  find  it,  I  must  carry  it 
to  God  with  some  hullaballoo,  even  though  we  both 
disdain  adoration  and  the  bumping  of  heads  on  the 
ground.  Eh? — you,  Doctor!  You  men  of  books 
and  naturalistic  laws — when  the  new  order  comes, 
and  you  have  considered  all  things;  when  the  last 
wilderness  is  plowed  up,  and  the  last  sea  explored 
— when  the  last  beast  is  shot,  and  the  last  savage 
tamed  and  in  a  collar  and  cravat — when  the  whole 
round  earth  is  gardened  out,  and  all  the  mills  are 
built  and  administered  with  the  due  humanitarian 
philosophy — when,  in  short,  the  final  analysis  is 


302  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

made  and  the  complete  code  set  forth,  and  the  last 
adventure  done,  when  the  road  lies  white  and 
smooth  and  broad  before  us,  and  life  goes  on — on 
— always  on — upon  my  soul,  what  then?" 

"Rand,  the  day  will  come." 

"Doubtless — this  socialism.  It  will  be  the  last 
epic."  He  shrugged  and  turned  away.  "I  have 
enough  to  do  to  live  my  own.  You  will  notice  that 
even  in  this  matter  of  the  little  beast-brother,  I  was 
not  allowed  to  complete  it — God  knows,  my  jewel 
of  good  deed  seems  now  a  cracked  bit  of  slate.  I 
was  going  off  alone  with  the  boy  to  discover  what 
was  in  him." 

"My  son,"  the  justice  muttered,  "out  of  your  in- 
credible life,  one  thing  seems  sure.  You  would  save 
us  all.  I  wonder  what  is  in  you?" 

"A  preacher ;  what  would  you  have  me  ?" 

A  flick  of  a  grim  smile  touched  the  father's  face. 
"You're  going?  Have  you  money?" 

"As  much  as  eighty  cents,  and  I  owe  that  to  John 
Bride.  Eh,  give  me  money!  Give  me  enough  and 
I  could  lift  the  shadow  off  the  world !  I  could  make 
all  the  fields  green,  and  have  all  the  children  laugh- 
ing. It's  the  magician — it  can  take  a  starved  body 
and  in  it  breed  a  soul !" 

They  looked  at  him  in  their  old  despair.  In  the 
pause  a  sound  came,  and  John  Bride  thrust  his 
red  face  through  the  open  door.  It  lit  at  sight  of 
Rand. 

"Man,  ye've  been  long.     There's  need   of  ye. 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER          303 

The  girl's  left — she  and  the  brother.  The  police 
were  on  them." 

"Louise  ?    She's  left  the  house !" 

"The  baker  down  the  block  warned  us.  I  canna 
tell  all."  He  looked  about :  "Come,  lad — again,  it's 
on  ye!" 

Rand  had  turned.     The  wife  came  swiftly  near. 

"It's  dark — it's  raining — wait — think !" 

"There's  none  to  act  save  Rand,"  old  John  re- 
torted. "There'd  be  danger  to  the  rest.  It's  bad 
enough — Louise  hunted  down.  Come,  lad !" 

Rand's  eyes  were  already  on  the  outer  dark. 

The  father  moved  toward  the  hall.  "A  moment 
' — you'll  need  money.  Doctor,  will  you  order  the 
carriage  ?" 

John  went  with  him  to  his  rooms,  the  footfalls 
died,  the  rain  splashed  the  panes,  the  shadows  grew, 
and  in  this  the  wife  and  the  outcast  stood  alone. 
From  the  tenseness  and  the  talk,  they  now  stood  in 
silence  across  the  room  from  each  other.  Rand  did 
not  speak ;  his  thoughts,  it  seemed,  upon  the  dark. 

"My  brother,"  she  said  at  length,  as  if  to  her  own 
heart.  "I  would  have  gone — I've  given  up  all,  but  it 
seems  this  last  is  denied  me."  She  came  to  him  in 
a  sort  of  timidness  now.  "O,  it  seems  I've  awakened. 
My  brother!  ...  I  wanted  to  say — to  have 
him  know — to  remember  that  I  could  not  see  before! 
Ah,  will  you  have  him  think  kindly  of  me?" 

And  because  Rand  did  not  at  once  answer,  she 
went  swiftly  on.  "O,  I  can  envy  you!  To  stand  a 


304  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

moment  heroic  with  it  all — even  if  it  was  mere  mad- 
ness .  .  .  but  I  tried.  Herford,  I  tried — did 
you  see  that?" 

"What's  come  to  you?"  he  answered,  "you're 
changed,  indeed." 

"Have  I  proved  myself?"  she  retorted.  "See  here 
— I'm  not  afraid.  Herford,  I  can  offer  my  hand  to 
you.  ...  I  see  so  clearly  now.  I'm  strong — 
and  a  strong  man  loves  me — a  brave  man.  He  stood 
against  me  when  he  loved !  I  understand  now  what 
he  was  thinking  of,  his  work — the  dream  he  had  of 
the  new  race.  Rand,  his  child  is  to  be  born  to  me." 

He  looked  at  her  wondering. 

"And  you,"  she  said,  "who  made  a  jest  of  women 
— you  stung  my  soul  with  it  now  as  you  did  long 
ago — you  came  back  here  to  whip  me  with  my  tin- 
worth.  O,  you're  very  wonderful !  And  the  old  way 
I  loved  you,  Herford — it's  quite  dead.  I'm  strong, 
now — can't  you  see?" 

But  when  the  deep  stealth  of  his  voice  came,  she 
turned  and  would  not  look  at  him,  she  nervously 
evaded:  "Go,  now."  And  she  kept  at  it,  as  he 
raised  her  hands.  "Go,  now — go — go!" 

"You  women,"  he  muttered;  "life  beats  you  back 
— it  withholds  and  mocks  you — the  pity  of  it !  The 
ages  have  left  this  in  the  eyes  of  all  of  you — that 
you  shall  be  merely  patient  and  deny." 

He  laid  away  her  hand  and  smiled.  "Go  back. 
The  thing's  well  enough — complete.  Eh? — it  was 
well  worth  while — to  see  you  stand,  to  hate,  re- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          305 

nounce — unf earing!  Indeed,  you  did  not  fail  in 
the  least,  Demetra!" 

She  twisted  nearer  in  some  feeling.  "And  is  that 
all?"  she  whispered.  "Herford,  see — I'm  strong, 
now.  Tell  me  ...  you  might  have  loved  me!" 

And  as  he  stood  with  his  brooding  smile,  un- 
touched, it  seemed,  John  Bride's  voice  came  from 
the  hall,  with  Stephen's  quaver  beyond.  The  draw 
of  the  cool  air  filled  the  room.  Rand  went  without; 
she  saw  him  conferring  with  the  old  Scot,  and  then 
the  glint  of  the  polished  wheels  at  the  door.  She 
followed,  and  by  Stephen's  side,  heard  the  grit  of 
the  wet  gravel,  the  sludge  of  wheels  in  the  drive, 
the  clacking  of  the  hoofs  on  the  crossing.  And 
still  they  stood — the  old  man  and  the  wife — peering 
after,  listening  to  the  blur  of  sound,  the  flick  and 
whisper  of  the  rain  covering  it;  the  air  blowing  on 
them,  stirring  the  blue  hall  light,  alive,  disengaging 
spring.  Then,  leaving  the  father  muttering,  she  hur- 
ried back  and  up  the  stairs  and  along  the  passage 
swiftly  and  alone. 

Corbett  and  his  mother  saw  her ;  with  a  whisper, 
the  man  left  the  old  woman.  When  he  reached  the 
living-room  it  was  empty,  dim-lit. 

"Demetra !"  he  cried,  and  looked  about.  She  came 
from  the  child's  chamber  beyond  and  stood  watching 
him,  her  hand  raised  in  warning.  "Be  still,"  she 
answered,  "Tad's  asleep." 

"You've  come  to  him  and  to  me/'  he  said.  "Dear, 
what  other  way — what  other  way !" 


306          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "he  sent  me  here,  Corbett 
If  I'm  awakened,  it  was  he!"  And  then,  because  he 
stood  stilled  and  apart  from  her,  she  suddenly  came 
to  him,  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 
"Always  you  were  calling  and  I  could  not  hear," 
she  whispered  on,  "I  let  you  go  alone !" 

And  as  he  had  been  alone,  coming  at  his  great  call 
down  to  the  sea  of  life,  so  now  they  sat  and  listened 
to  the  breathing  child ;  and,  it  seemed,  to  the  other, 
awed,  in  this  spring  night,  at  the  ineffable  achieve- 
ment, Nature  fecundating  the  immemorial  cycle, 
life  starting  green,  for  ever  at  return  along  the 
highway. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BY  one  of  those  curious  chances  which  lead  one 
to  credit,  at  times,  the  intervention  of  the  un- 
seen, they  came  upon  the  fugitives  within  the  hour. 
The  driver  had  been  told  to  follow  the  Lake  Shore 
Drive  southward  from  the  lower  end  of  Lincoln 
Park ;  and  the  two  men  in  the  carriage  had  watched 
the  roughened  made  land  of  the  lean  park.  The 
place  was  lone ;  to  the  right  the  young  wet  trees  and 
the  twinkling  lamps  against  the  bulked^  far  houses ; 
to  the  left  the  dumped  dirt  heaps  with  the  flash  of 
white  breakers  now  and  then,  beyond.  John  cracked 
a  doubt. 

"I  was  told  they'd  seek  the  shore  and  wait  for  us 
— that  was  her  message/'  Then  his  old  eyes  peered. 
"Hist!  Two  figures  beyond  the  turn,  and  one  a 
woman — and  they're  comin'." 

And  from  over  the  asphalt  shore-work  she  came 
to  them,  the  light  from  the  clouds  on  her  face, 
a  black  silk-netted  scarf  about  her  blacker  hair,  her 
eyes  resolute.  "I  was  sure  of  you  when  the  carriage 
stopped,"  she  said,  "none  other  would  come  out 
here." 

"Ye're  wet,  girl,"  John  put  in  eagerly,  "and  the 
man — whaur  is  he  ?" 

307 


308  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

Rand  had  opened  the  door,  but  she  waited  until 
Karasac  had  come.  The  mill-man  had  no  word  be- 
yond a  mutter ;  he  swung  in  and  by  John's  side,  with 
a  glitter  of  eye  from  a  distant  lamp.  "Beast- 
brother/'  murmured  Rand,  "you're  giving  us  a  deal 
of  discomfort  with  saving  this  neck  of  yours.  Well, 
now — John  Bride — which  way  ?" 

"Ye've  money?"  John  asked.  "Stephen  saw  to 
that?  Well,  it's  out  of  the  city  for  ye  both  before 
daybreak.  Let's  think  o'  it." 

The  girl  watched  Rand  intently.  "And  you're  go- 
ing?" she  said,  "after  all,  she  confessed — and  still 
you  took  him  on  you  ?" 

"I  did,"  he  answered,  "that's  the  last  joke.  I'm 
off  with  him,  and  a  rough  night  and  a  wet  skin 
ahead.  Eh? — it  was  worth  the  price!" 

To  his  old  grimace  she  had  a  nervous  gesture. 
"Well,  now  to  find  a  way.  We'll  be  followed.  The 
railroad  stations  will  be  watched.  Karasac  is 
wounded — they  must  have  his  description — and  you 
— you  are  a  poor  actor  when  it  comes  to  disguising, 
I'm  afraid.  They  probably  spotted  you  coming  to 
the  flat — I  think  that  caused  the  first  comment.  We 
did  not  slip  from  the  house  half  an  hour  too  soon 
to-night." 

They  watched  her  flicking  the  water  from  her 
sleeves,  listening  to  her  incisive  voice.  The  carriage 
went  slowly  southward  along  the  new-made  land, 
the  horses  splashing  the  churned  mud. 

"West,"  Louise  muttered  in  the  dark,  "if  you'd 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  309 

get  a  train  at  Winnetka,  or  somewhere  up  the  north 
shore — any  of  the  stations  there.  It  seems  the  only 
safe  chance.  Down-town  I'd  fear  for  you — you, 
with  your  wild  talk,  and  Karasac,  ignorant,  helpless, 
defiant." 

"Beast-brother,"  murmured  Rand,  "she  gives  us 
an  evil  reputation." 

She  stirred — her  hand  touched  his  on  the  cushions 
— cold,  wet,  she  did  not  withdraw  it,  as  she  went  on : 
"O,  you  must  drop  this  now !  Be  reasonable."  Then 
she  went  on  to  John  with  her  eager  importuning. 

"Ye  fool,"  old  John  answered,  "mind  what  she 
says!  If  ye  were  confronted  down-town  by  officers 
what  wad  ye  say?" 

"I  would  make  faces.  My  brother,  here,  would 
doubtless  yelp  of  equality,  fraternity — anarchy,  jus- 
tice, brotherhood — God  knows  the  rest  of  it.  He 
has  an  irrefutable  philosophy,  however — he  would 
wind  up:  'All  dis— w'at?'  " 

She  sat  back  in  despair,  and  drew  her  hand  away. 
His  voice,  cool,  unmoved,  melodious — he  seemed  en- 
joying the  matter  greatly. 

"Drive  on,"  old  John  called  softly —  "the  river — 
take  Rush  Street  and  turn  left  to  the  docks.  I  have 
a  way,  it  seems — a  cracked  scheme,  but  'twill  do." 

"A  lake  boat?"  she  said,  "it  would  not  do  for 
them  to  be  seen  leaving  Rand's  carriage  at  the  docks 
— the  monogram  in  the  side — Terance  known." 

"That's  not  it.  Old  Nelse's  nephew  keeps  small 
boats  near  by — launches  and  the  like.  Only  last  week 


310          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

he  asked  me  go  fish.  I  can  dicker  wi'  the  man — he'll 
not  ask  nor  give  about  it." 

She  caught  the  old  man's  arm.  "A  launch?  That 
would  put  them  up  the  lake  shore  for  a  midnight 
train!  It's  a  chance." 

"A  bit  chance— if  the  lad's  by." 

"Well,  for  it,"  muttered  Rand,  "believe  me,  I'd 
rather  not  be  hanged,  and  as  for  prison,  I've  tasted 
it  four  times  in  my  life — the  fare's  not  to  my  taste." 

"O,  man — be  done !"  John  Bride  glowered.  "You'd 
have  gab  before  the  Almighty,  and  to  spare,  I've  no 
doubt.  Be  still — we're  turning  on  the  wharves — the 
light  from  that  big  steamer's  fair  on  ye." 

The  carriage  had  come  to  a  narrow  pebbled  cleft 
between  tall  warehouses  and  the  black  river.  John 
Bride  swung  open  the  door;  he  was  out  and  along 
the  planked  way  where  a  single  red  light  hung  at 
a  staging.  Across  the  stream  the  lights  of  the 
lake  steamer  made  the  water  a  coiling,  begilded 
snake.  In  this  interval,  encompassed  by  the  wet 
dark,  they  sat  stilled;  the  girl  in  some  nameless 
despair;  the  mill-hand  sullen,  and  Rand  ceaselessly 
watching. 

Old  John  came  bobbing  back  from  the  shadows. 
"It's  fair  easy.  Not  a  soul's  about  to  see  us,  and  the 
lad's  got  the  boat  swinging  free,  the.  engine  workin'. 
He's  just  come  in  from  up  the  north  branch  on  some 
shippin'  business.  Come  away — follow." 

Rand  took  the  girl's  hand  on  the  stairs  to  the 
landing.  As  in  a  dream  she  let  him  seat  her  on 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          311 

the  cushioned  seat  forward;  as  in  a  dream  she 
felt  the  bobbing  launch,  the  grate  on  the  dock 
piles;  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  aft,  old  John's 
in  some  reproof,  and  Rand's  melody,  a  sonorous 
jest  and  quarrel.  The  boatman  held  a  lantern 
down,  as  Rand  crouched  by  the  tiny  engine  amid- 
ships. "I  can  run  it,"  he  retorted,  "I've  handled 
them." 

"The  girl?"  John  still  insisted  from  above, 
"Louise — ye  canna  take  her!" 

"I'll  not  leave  them,"  she  answered,  "until  I  see 
them  on  a  train — away — free  of  the  city." 

"It's  grand,"  John  muttered,  "and  I'll  go  home. 
There'll  be  much  to  explain — to  gloss  about  and  lie 
over.  I'll  go  see  Stephen  wi'  the  word  of  you."  And 
then  his  shout  of  warning  about  the  breakwater  and 
the  wind  outside  came  faintly,  for  the  eighteen- foot 
power  boat  was  turning  in  the  snaky  water,  and  had 
fled,  stealthy  as  a  ferret,  after  one  sobbing  exhaust, 
down  the  dirty  stream.  They  saw  the  last  light 
flicker  by  the  warehouse  end — the  Polack  crouched 
in  the  stern,  Rand  forward  of  the  engine,  his  hand 
on  the  tiny  wheel,  and  Louise  in  the  peaked  seat 
by  him. 

"Pull  in  that  dragging  line,"  he  ordered,  and  she 
obeyed,  and  cleared  her  damp  and  heavy  hair  and 
stared  ahead.  And  on  to  the  river's  mouth  the  slim 
launch  flew,  with  but  a  spatter,  now  and  then,  of 
sound,  and  when  the  first  roller  lifted  and  the  breeze 
blew  free  in  their  faces,  the  last  red  light  behind 


312  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

and  ahead  the  inky  blackness,  she  found  the  man 
by  her  was  laughing.  Laughing,  and  putting  about 
her  shoulders  a  yellowed  oilskin  coat. 

"Comrade,"  he  broke  forth,  "it's  an  adventure 
alone  to  watch  you — worth,  indeed,  a  dozen  mis- 
chances. I  can  see,  I  think — the  marvel  in  your  eyes. 
.  .  .  I  told  you  once  of  their  quality." 

"It's  rough,"  she  said,  "and  dark  ahead.  Is  that 
the  breakwater  light?" 

"I'd  not  know  the  thing  if  it  was  labeled,"  he  re- 
torted. "Eh? — the  road's  ahead  of  us — the  long 
trail — and  many  a  tough  night  by  the  way!  And 
what  brought  you,  comrade — tell  me?" 

"You  know,"  she  answered ;  "look  ahead — a  tim- 
ber floating." 

He  spun  the  wheel  and  laughed  his  lightness. 
"You're  here,  for  what?  To  save  what?  A  little 
beast  of  the  mills — a  man  of  the  colleges  and  the 
socialisms  and  the  brotherhoods !" 

"Surely,"  she  muttered ;  "yes,  you  know !" 

"A  week  ago  you  loved  him — loved  them  all — 
these  wonder  workings  of  his  dreams.  But  was  it 
for  this  to-night  you  put  your  neck  in  danger?" 

"I've  not  feared — what's  there  to  fear?" 

"There's  a  bright  thing  about  you.,"  he  said ;  and 
then  added,  in  his  abrupt  authoritative  way :  "here, 
hold  the  wheel,  so.  I'll  look  to  the  gasolene.  No — 
off  a  bit — keep  that  light  on  your  left — wide.  She's 
rocking  mightily — small  wonder.  Devil  a  load's  she 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  313 

ever  carried  like  this — anarchy  in  the  stern,  a  wom- 
an for  pilot,  and  an  engineman  who  does  not  know 
the  top  of  the  thing  from  the  bottom." 

"You  said  you  did !"  she  cried. 

"What  odds  ?  The  man  started  her  for  me,  and 
I  was  tired  of  the  palaver  on  the  dock.  I  wanted 
to  get  off — the  night  smelled  good  and  free.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  a  swing  in  the  dark — to  go  off  plunging  if 
I  had  to  go.  To  tell  the  truth — between  you  and  me 
— I  was  afraid  of  the  police.  But  here — with 
you — here,  hold  your  hand — feel  this  air  blowing 
on  your  cheek,  comrade — free  air !  Who'd  be  cooped 
in  a  bottle  of  a  jail  or  mill  or  house?  Eh? — feel 
this !"  And  he  seized  the  wheel  again  from  her  and 
brought  the  boat  quartering  on,  so  that  the  third 
wave  leaping,  struck  the  bow  and  spattered  them 
from  head  to  foot.  "And  this !"  he  cried,  "and  this !" 
And  again  he  sent  the  tiny  craft  against  the  east 
seas  so  that  they  showered  her  bow. 

The  girl  did  not  move.  He  saw  her  pale  face 
staring  calmly  on,  the  water  trickling  from  her  hair. 
"Are  you  mad?"  she  whispered. 

"It's  the  mad  who  live  buoyantly.  Eh,  come — 
forget  you're  you — great  God,  you  women — you 
crawl  about  in  stays  and  under  rules  tied  to  some 
duty  or  other — that's  always  my  impatience  with 
you !  And  yet,  to-night  I  saw  one  face  fate  with  as 
lordly  a  manner  as  I  might  have  had." 

"She  dared  confess  ?"  Louise  went  on ;  "she  told !" 


314          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Beautifully.  The  soul  in  her — it  leaped  like  a 
fire  I'd  touched." 

"To  save  you,"  the  girl  muttered,  "she  dared — 
where  is  she?" 

"By  his  side.  I,  in  fact,  rather  blessed  them.  The 
thing  was  cut  clear  as  a  cameo — the  woman  rising 
there,  unfearing — hot  with  it." 

"You  drove  her  to  it — you  maddened  them  all!" 

"And  excellently  done.  I  assure  you,  it's  some- 
thing to  make  them  stare  at  me  confounded,  if  one 
even  mentions  truth  to  them.  I,  indeed,  am  the  arch 
humorist  of  America.  When  the  end  comes  you 
ought  to  hear  me  say  something  worth  while." 

"The  end?" 

"Did  you,  really,"  he  went  on,  with  some  solici- 
tude, "expect  to  get  out  of  here  alive?" 

She  sat  about  to  see  him  more  clearly.  "Alive? 
Why,  when  we  make  a  landing  up  the  north  shore 
and  you  get  safely  off,  I  intend  to  take  the  first 
suburban  back — " 

He  was  watching  the  far  line  of  tossing  lights 
marking  Sheridan  Drive  and  the  thinning  districts. 
"You  have  a  deal  of  faith,"  he  answered  dryly. 

She  was  still  while  the  throbbing  engine  tore  the 
seas — it  was  not  running  so  smoothly,  and  again 
he  gave  her  the  wheel  and  turned  back  to  it. 

He  spoke  to  Karasac,  crouched  in  the  stern 
seat.  The  Pole  snarled  unintelligibly;  he  was 
beaten  with  fear,  shivering  with  cold  —  they 
could  see  his  white  face  glaring  in  that  curious  light 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  315 

which  comes  from  the  proximity  of  a  city  reflected 
in  the  clouds.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  sky 
hung  dark,  the  lake  swept  heavily  from  the  east. 
At  times  the  launch  wallowed,  hardly  getting  her 
head  up  before  the  next  wave  smote  her;  already 
there  was  water  washing  in  the  engine  pit. 

Rand  came  back  and  motioned  off  the  starboard. 
"More  in,"  he  said  laconically,  "keep  the  shore  line 
in  sight.  We've  run  a  good  bit  and  I  think  day's 
not  far  off." 

"Where  shall  you  land?"  she  said;  "have  you  a 
thought  of  it?" 

"Not  the  remotest.    Keep  on — would  you  lose  a 
night  like  this?   You — a  creature  of  the  cities — tell 
me — did  you  ever  see  a  sunrise?" 
"No." 

"Then  you've  never  lived.  Come — one  day  of  life. 
Comrade,  it's  hardly  more  than  a  week  since  I  saw 
you,  and  here  you  are  risking  your  neck  with  me. 
Eh?  this  is  extraordinary!  A  night  like  this — to 
watch  your  eyes  grow  wide  under  the  sunrise!  It 
repays  one  for  growing  older — even  for  getting  fat. 
.  .  .  I  found  it  unpleasant  just  now  to  stoop 
down  to  that  engine." 

"O,  will  you  spoil  it  all?"  she  cried.  "You've 
given  much — and  then  you  make  it  cheap  with  your 
talk.  You,  who  might  make  men  silent  before  you 
with  something  else  than  your  brute  wit — who  might 
find  a  man's  work — a  giving  to  the  higher  law — to 
love!" 


316          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

"Love" — he  grimaced — "a  powder  that  women 
sprinkle  on  their  shoulders,  and  of  which  men  carry 
away  the  imprints  on  their  coats — until  they  get  out 
of  the  room  .  .  .  then  they  brush  it  off." 

"I  did  not  mean  that/'  she  retorted;  "but  to  live 
and  serve." 

"Your  eyes,"  he  put  in,  with  his  dry  and  rare 
reserve;  "it  pleases  you  to  have  me  speak  of  them." 

Then  she  would  not  look  at  him.  And  presently 
he  went  to  Karasac,  their  voices  coming  to  her 
a  muffled  quarrel  or  chaffing.  Her  wrists  had  begun 
aching  with  the  strain  of  the  wheel;  she  looked 
back  at  them,  Rand  at  some  interminable  harangue. 
She  braced  her  feet,  cleared  her  eyes  of  the  sting  of 
water  breaking  on  the  bow,  and  watched  ahead. 
And  back  they  stood  and  quarreled,  regardless  of 
the  wash  of  the  seas  in  the  pit,  the  jerky,  intermit- 
tent engine.  Presently  the  import  of  it  came  .  .  . 
in  this  hour  he  had  seen  fit  to  lecture  the  anarchist 
— a  man  with  a  broken  arm — on  the  need  of  keep- 
ing cleaner — his  finger-nails. 

All  untried  and  helpless  she  clung  to  the  brass 
wheel  and  made  what  shift  she  might  of  steering. 
The  seas  were  rising,  the  white  ghosts  leaped  about 
the  bow  and  dissolved  upon  her,  the  water  running 
down  inside  the  oilskin  he  had  given  her.  And  the 
bleak,  long  shore-line  rose  clearer,  and  to  east,  under 
the  somber  clouds,  the  light  sifted  dimly.  And  as 
again  the  seas  viciously  showered  her  until  she  bent 
her  head  blindly,  she  was  conscious  of  his  hand  clos- 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  317 

ing  on  her  own  upon  the  wheel.  His  grave  voice 
came : 

"Comrade,  youVe  done  well.  I  merely  waited 
to  see  if  you'd  cry  out  or  shrink."  He  drew  closer 
the  coat  about  her ;  she  wondered  at  her  gratefulness 
when  she  said  quietly :  "Thank  you." 

Into  the  north  they  plunged,  while  the  east  light- 
ened the  bit  of  day,  the  yellow  cliff,  streaked  with 
washes,  blurred  with  shrub  down  to  the  very  line  of 
breakers;  while  here  and  there  a  proper  farmstead 
rose  far  back,  a  cluster  of  village  lights,  a  line  of 
poles  all  dank.  Rand  watched  seriously;  at  length 
he  said:  "Beyond  that  station  ahead  we'll  take  a 
chance  on  getting  in.  Highland  Park  is  miles  be- 
hind, but  you  can  get  the  electric  line  back.  Girl, 
you're  cold,  and  Karasac,  the  brute,  is  asleep.  Well, 
he'll  need  it  before  he's  done  with  the  road  and  me." 

"And  you!"  she  said,  stirring  to  watch  him.  "If 
one  but  knew?"  She  went  on  in  a  sort  of  despair: 
"Your  father — an  old  man  waiting!" 

"Tell  him  that  the  last  you  saw  of  his  son  he  was 
at  a  country  station  still  clamoring  that  his  stomach 
was  hungry  and  his  back  wet — that  he  had  no  other 
wisdom  except  to  try  get  food  and  fire,  and  some- 
thing of  a  disaster  he  was  making.  But  say  that 
he  wore  no  man's  collar." 

She  could  not  smile,  her  face  was  weary.  In  an 
hour  he  would  be  gone  ...  he  would  leave  no 
word  save  the  uncaring  echo  of  his  life. 

And   as  the   launch  labored  on   with   the   gray 


3i8  MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

clouds  lightening,  the  east  seas  coming  troubled  and 
unceasing,  they  were  silent,  for,  wet,  under  a  dirty; 
dawn,  you  can  get  neither  wit  nor  passion,  but  only 
the  animal-enduring  patience  of  the  trapped.  Then, 
again  the  engine  fluttered.  Rand  gave  the  wheel  to 
her  and  went  back  to  awaken  Karasac. 

The  fellow  moved — then,  bewildered,  leaped  up 
and  fell  half  over  the  gasolene  tank,  held  by  braces 
on  the  gunwale.  The  can  tore  away  and  as  Karasac 
struggled  back,  a  sheet  of  flame  sprang  from  the  pit, 
and  then,  with  the  thunder  of  the  explosion  in  her 
ears,  she  crouched  higher  in  the  bow  and  steadied 
the  wheel.  That  was  all — the  thing  was  done ;  she 
looked  about  to  see  the  engine  pit  black,  with  mar- 
gins of  tiny  fire  here,  there,  starting,  dying,  a  dingy 
column  of  flecked  smoke  rising.  The  launch  was 
still,  save  for  a  gasp  of  water  somewhere  in  her 
frail  body — still,  save  for  the  next  pounding  sea. 
Karasac  stood  upright,  yelling  on  the  decked  after- 
space.  Rand's  head  rose  by  the  boat's  side ;  he  clung 
to  the  torn  gunwale,  and  then  began  working  his  way 
forward,  hand  over  hand. 

Louise  had  not  screamed — merely  stared,  fasci- 
nated by  the  burning  oil  washing  on  the  water  in 
the  pit,  drawing  her  feet  above  it.  Rand's  blackened 
face  was  near  her;  he  looked  up — smiled.  "Be  still," 
he  said,  "we'll  wash  in — it's  not  far.  Are  you  hurt?" 

"No,"  she  answered;  "but  you?" 

He  was  trying  to  raise  himself  and  peer  along  the 
brass  rail  at  the  boat's  interior.  "A  pipe  smashed 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER          319 

through  the  metal/'  he  said,  "she's  taking  in  water 
broadside  on.  Is  the  gear  off?" 

"I  suppose — "  the  wheel  was  idle  in  her  hands; 
there  was  a  futile  rattle  of  cord  and  chain  some- 
where. "But  you — come,  try  get  in." 

"She's  filling — she'll  not  stand  more  weight.  I'm 
very  well  here." 

The  blue  haze  drifted;  the  last  fire  wisps  were 
struck  out  by  the  smashing  seas — only  aft  a  blue 
tongue  flickered,  with  Karasac's  black  and  white 
face  staring  at  it.  Broadside  on,  the  launch  drifted, 
down  to  the  beading  along  her  sides. 

The  girl  looked  calmly  off.  There  was  the  yellow- 
washed  bank  of  earth,  the  green  fringing  willows, 
the  line  of  boulders  whitened  by  the  waves.  It  was 
not  far.  North  and  south  the  gray  wastes  of  lake 
ran,  but  in  the  east  a  pink  rift  widened.  The  air 
was  sweet,  strong  with  life,  the  wind  not  rough — 
the  storm  had  passed.  The  day  came  as  a  pink 
flower  might  have  opened. 

"It  isn't  far,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his;  "can  you  swim?  You  mustn't  worry  about  me." 

His  deep  voice  found  its  humor:  "Did  you  im- 
agine so?  We're  doing  very  well.  In  ten  minutes 
we'll  be  on  bottom — if  she  floats  that  long." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  watching  him  intently,  "you're 
hurt!" 

"A  little — something  struck  me.  Go  on  the  bow — 
it's  higher." 

"Where?"  she  cried,  and  brushed  back  the  hair 


320          MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

from  his  blackened  and  burned  face,  round,  heavy, 
the  eyebrows  gone.  The  next  wave  over  him  flung 
a  bloody  froth  upon  her — she  crowded  nearer,  star- 
ing. "Rand,"  she  cried,  "tell  me !"  Then  she  started 
up  and  ran  back  through  the  wreck.  "Come,  help 
me  get  him  in!" 

But  the  other  man,  crouched  on  the  stern  of  the 
sinking  boat,  yelled  insanely,  shook  his  head.  The 
girl,  erect  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  her  wet  hair 
stringing,  cursed  him.  "Damn  you,  then — stay!" 
she  cried,  and  ran  forward,  kneeling  to  seize  Rand's 
arm,  for  he  had  sunk  lower,  his  eyes  closing.  At 
her  cry  he  opened  them,  from  his  lips  a  bloody 
trail  floating  away.  The  next  sea  buried  him  .  .  . 
it  seemed  a  day  before  the  boat  heaved  up,  with  her 
clinging  to  him.  "You're  bleeding  fast,"  she  mut- 
tered; "Rand— hold  to  me— hold!" 

"Bottom,"  he  whispered ;  "my  feet,  wait — a  mo- 
ment." The  boat  struck  with  a  jar  and  a  dizzy  heel- 
ing in  the  waves.  She  clung  to  his  coat  lapels,  and 
tried  to  beat  the  water  from  his  face,  her  black, 
coarse  hair  tangled  in  his  and  about  the  brass  rail 
and  floating  away  on  the  next  racing  wave. 

"Keep  off,"  he  murmured;  "she's  grounded  now 
— she'll  smash  you." 

"Rand!"  she  cried;  "hold— hold.  .  .  .  O,  a 
little  longer !" 

The  next  wave  buried  them  again;  their  faces 
hardly  rose.  The  launch  was  wrenched  from 
beneath  them,  rose,  sank,  was  rolled,  smashing 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  321 

Rand  from  his  feet.  The  mill-hand  was  washed 
against  them,  his  elbow  struck  Rand's  cheek,  he 
clung  fast,  yelling;  and  the  big  man  staggered  on, 
his  feet  among  the  boulders,  fighting  on,  with  both 
the  others  clinging  to  him,  stumbling  on,  carrying 
them  with  the  fury  of  the  waves  on  their  backs.  He 
fell  in  the  shallows,  and  then  was  crawling  on,  with 
the  girl's  hand  trying  to  upraise  him ;  while  Karasac 
had  left  them,  leaping  on  to  the  shingly  beach. 

But  the  other  man  stopped,  lying  tired,  still,  in 
the  racing  water,  with  the  girl  pleading,  lifting,  at 
his  arm.  "Come — another  yard — just  a  step  more." 

"For  what  ?"  His  voice  took  its  old  music.  "The 
thing's  done  well  enough.  Here — get  this  from  my 
pocket — for  the  little  beast-brother.  You'll  see  him 
well  away?"  He  fumbled  in  his  coat;  her  hand  went 
to  clasp  the  object.  "Beast-brother,"  he  went  on, 
"comrade,  you'll  set  him  on  the  road.  West  .  .  . 
and  say  to  him  that  I  was  not  unkind  after  all — was 
I?" 

She  cried  her  terror  at  his  weakness,  on  his  face 
the  gray  of  the  sea.  His  tired  eyes  opened. 

"Eh?  Go  leave  me.  Little  comrade — go  back. 
The  other  man — he's  right — go  serve  them,  some- 
how." And  as  she  would  not  leave  him,  fighting 
to  raise  his  head  above  the  waves,  he  went  on: 
"You'd  like  to  die  here  with  me,  eh  ?  Well,  the  pity 
that  it's  denied  you  .  .  .  you'll  be  lonely,  com- 
rade. Sacrifice  is  a  gift  for  few." 

And  when  she  cried  out  of  her  mighty  loneliness 


322          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

he  again  opened  his  eyes,  his  glance  down  over  his 
helpless  body,  ever  the  first  satire  at  himself:  "I 
told  you  when  the  end  came  I'd  say  something 
worth  while.  Eh?  And  now — nothing — except 
that  I  always  insisted  it  was  a  tragedy  to  grow  fat!" 

She  knelt  in  the  water,  dragging  at  his  heavy 
head;  she  fought  the  lake  from  him,  kissing  the 
burned  face  again  and  again  in  the  froth  of  the 
waves.  Then  she  looked  up  to  find  the  world  above 
blue,  the  clouds  slipping  to  the  west  as  a  handker- 
chief from  a  crystal  sphere.  Karasac  sat  at  the  foot 
of  the  bank  and  about  him  the  blackbirds  sang  in 
the  willows. 

The  girl  looked  down  at  the  twist  of  blood  from 
Rand's  side,  then  went  on  to  the  Pole,  scrambling 
up  the  muddy  bank  and  calling  clearly  to  him. 

He  followed  her.  They  went  across  the  level 
green,  the  many-twinkling  lake  behind,  and  ahead 
the  land  with  houses  white,  detached,  here  and  there, 
with  budding  trees  about.  A  line  of  telegraph  poles 
followed  a  cut  in  the  earth,  and  when  Louise  reached 
this  she  climbed  the  fence,  and  he  came  after.  When 
they  reached  the  cindered  track  between  the  rails, 
the  girl  looked  up.  A  sparrow  balanced  itself  on  the 
telegraph  wire  among  a  string  of  water  drops  shin- 
ing against  the  sky,  and  ahead  of  them  the  road 
ran,  vanishing  to  immensity,  sky,  earth,  poles,  rails, 
converging  to  a  point.  The  morning  was  of 
marvelous  stillness. 

The  girl  looked  at  the  man  slinking  by  her,  his 


MY    BROTHER'S    KEEPER  323 

hat  in  his  hand,  his  wet  clothes  dripping,  his  thin 
face  awed,  obetiient,  silent.  She  reached  the  packet 
to  him. 

"Rand  meant  it  for  you,"  she  said,  "it's  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  I  believe.  Rand  wants  you  to  get  away 
West.  Rand  wants  you  to  be  free,  to  be  kind,  to  be 
happy.  Rand  wants  everything  for  you — every- 
thing!" 

He  took  the  wet  parcel,  staring  at  it,  and  she 
turned  and  climbed  the  muddy  bank  to  the  fields. 

She  could  see  Rand's  body,  moved  now  and  then 
by  the  lessening  waves.  With  serious  practicality 
she  turned  to  watch  the  other  man.  He  had  gone 
along  the  road  westward  on  his  way,  a  tiny  figure 
now,  a  single  black  point  on  the  green  earth,  the 
center  of  an  immensity,  the  dome  of  the  sky  hung 
like  a  magician's  crystal.  After  a  moment  she  went 
back  to  her  dead. 

At  two  o'clock,  dressed  in  a  fresh  white  lawn — 
for  the  spring  sun  was  warm — she  came  to  En- 
nisley's  study  by  the  side  door  and  sat  down  at  her 
type-writer.  They  heard  it  clicking  and  came  hur- 
riedly from  the  front  of  the  house  where  they  had 
waited  since  dawn.  They  crowded  about  her,  the 
father  with  his  shaking  lip,  old  John  with  his  coo, 
the  pioneer  mother,  and  Corbett,  pale  and  still,  with 
his  wife's  arm  about  his  neck  as  he  sat  on  a  chair 
arm.  They  cried  out  at  her  composure,  her  neat 
gowning  fitted  to  the  day's  work. 


324          MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER 

She  told  them  as  much  as  was  needed,  and  what 
now  they  should  do. 

"But,  Louise,"  the  wife  whispered  at  the  last,  "he 
sent  back  no  word — nothing — nothing?" 

"He  meant  for  us  to  keep  on  working  the  best  we 
could/'  the  girl  answered. 

The  next  day,  in  fact,  she  was  transcribing  the 
professor's  new  lecture. 

Still  it  was  against  nature  that  she  should  stay — 
within  the  month  she  resigned,  quietly,  despite  their 
protests,  to  take  up  some  sort  of  settlement  work  in 
Pittsburg.  She  wrote,  now  and  then,  in  friendly 
fashion,  and  then,  within  the  year,  they  lost  her; 
when  Corbett  wrote  happily  that  a  son  was  born  to 
Demetra,  she  did  not  answer.  After  a  few  years 
they  recalled  her,  now  and  then,  as  people  will — 
a  quiet  girl,  faithful,  pale,  unpretty  save  for  her 
marvelous  eyes  of  blue — they  supposed  she  might 
be  lonely  except  for  her  work. 


THE   ENE> 


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